LdUJ^-Ve-LTS 


m 


^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/fleursdelysbookoOOthoriala 


FLEURS-DE-LYS 


FLEURS-DE-LYS 

A  BOOK  OF  FRENCH  POETRY  FREELY 
TRANSLATED  INTO  ENGLISH  VERSE 

WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION   AND    NOTES 


BY 

WILFRID  THORLEY 

Author  of  "Confessional  and  other  Poems,"  1911; 
"Paul  Verlaine,"  1914 


BOSTON  &  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
1920 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


StacK 
Annex 


Verball  Translators  sticke  to  the  bare  Text 
Sometimes  so  close,  the  Reader  is  perplext. 
Finding  the  words,  to  finde  the  wit  that  sprung 
From  the  first  writer  in  his  native  tongue. 
The  spirit  of  an  Author  being  fled. 
His  naked  lines  looke  like  a  body  dead. 

AURELIAN  TOWNSHEND 
Circa  1620- 


Vessentiel,  dans  une  version  itrangere  d'une  poeme,  n'est  pas 
I'exactitude  des  details,  mais  la  verity  de  Vensemble,  et  cette 
verite  ne  peut  se  rencontrer  que  par  lefait  d'une  sorte  de  crdation 
nouvelle  par  des  moyens  nouveaux. 

ALBERT  MOCKEL 
1916 


CHRONOLOGICAL  TABLE  OF 
CONTENTS 

Page 
INTRODUCTION  i 

BOOK  I 

ANONYMOUS.     (12th  Century) 

1.  The  Twa  Systres  35 
GUIOT  DE  DIJON  (13th  Century) 

2.  The  Laye  of  the  Ladye  of  Fael  36 
JEHANNOT  DE  LESCUREL  (14th  Century) 

3.  Ballade  37 
JEAN  FROISSART  (1337-1410) 

4.  Rondeau  of  hys  Ladye  38 

5.  Rondeau  of  Fare-well  39 
EUSTACHE  DESCHAMPS  (1340-1410) 

6.  Ballade  of  Pentecost  39 

7.  Rondeau  of  Soldierhood  40 
CHRISTINE  DE  PISAN  (1363-1430) 

8.  Ballade  of  Sprynge-tyme  41 

9.  Rondeau  of  Secret  Sorrowe  42 
ANONYMOUS  (isth  Century) 

10.  Folk  Song  :  "  What  shall  I  doe  if  love  me  leave  ?  "         42 

CHARLES  D'ORL^ANS  (1391-1465) 

1 1 .  Ballade  :  "  O  praye  for  peace,  sweet  mayde  Marie  ' '       43 

12.  Rondeau  :   "  Howe  comely  hath  Godde  made  her 

be"  45 

13.  Rondeau  :    "  Myne  only  love,  my  joye,  my  boone  "  45 

14.  Ballade  :  "  Within  the  forest  of  sadde  wearinesse  "  46 

15.  Rondeau  :  "  Tyme  hath  throwne  downe  the  robe  he 

bare  "  47 

16.  Rondeau  :    "  Salute  for  me  the  fellowe-ship  "  47 
FRAN9OIS  VILLON  (1431-     ?     ) 

17.  From  the  Greater  Testament :   "I  knowe  full  well 

I  am  noe  saynte  ' '  48 

18.  The  Ballade  of  Lovely  Ladyes  of  Long  Agoe  49 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

FRANCOIS  VILLON  (continued)  Page 

19*.  From  the  Greater  Testament  :    "I  doe  bemoan  my 

youthful  sinne  "  50 

20.  From  the  Greater  Testament  :    "I  give  my  bodye 

untoe  her  that  gatte  51 

21.  Ballade  made  for  his  Mother  that  shemighte  praye 

toe  Our  Ladye  52 

22    Epitaph  in  ballade  form  written  in  expectation  of 

being  hanged  53 

23.  His  owne  EpitaphJ  54 
MELLIN  DE  SAINT-GELAIS  (1487-1558) 

24.  Of  hys  Ladye  55 
MARGUERITE  DE  NAVARRE  (1492-1549) 

25.  Dizain  to  Clement  Marot  56 

CLEMENT  MAROT  (i  495-1 544) 

26.  Dizain  in  answer  to  Marguerite  of  Navarre  56 

27.  Of  the  Abbot  and  his  Valet  57 

28.  Song  :  ' '  What  evil  woes  dull  Hate  maye  breede  ' '  57 

29.  Song  :    "He  who  with  a  random  eye  ' '  58 

30.  Ballade  of  Maye  and  of  Virtue  58 
CHRISTOPHE  PLANTIN  (1514-1589) 

31.  Happinesse  59 

BOOK  II 

PONTUS  DE  TYARD  (1521-1603) 

32.  Sonnet  :    ' '  Sleepe,  sire  of  rest  and  eke  of  dreams 

the  sire  "  63 

PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  (1524-1585) 

33.  Sonnet  :    "  Nowe  that  the  skiey  space,   the  solid 

claye  "  63 

34.  Sonnet  :   "I  send  to  thee  a  posie  gathered  ' '  64 

35.  Sonnet  :"  You  spiky  gorse,  you  hollye  thorn-beset  "  65 

36.  Sonnet  :     "  On  my  return  to  thee  (Ah  me  !  my 

woe)  "  65 

37.  Sonnet  :    ' '  Since  she  is  f rostye  as  the  Winter  aire  ' '       66 

38.  Sonnet  :    ' '  When   thou    art   old   and   bye  the  fire 

alone"  66 

39.  To  Cassandra  :    "  O  mayde  more  tender  yet  "  67 

40.  Sonnet  :     "  Here  is  the  wood  whereof  my  angel 

sweete "  69 

41.  Sonnet :    "  Not  sunrise  that  doth  sette   the   rose 

a-fire "  69 

42.  Sonnet :  "  As  you  maye  see  upon  the  stem  in  Maye ' ' 

43.  On  his  choice  of  a  Grave  :  "  Caves,  and  streames       70 

that  downward  slyde  ' '  70 


CONTENTS  ix 

JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY  (1525-1560)  Page 

44    Sonnet  :    "If  Lyfe's  full  span  be  but  a  daye  that's 

sped  "  73 

45.  Sonnet  :    ' '  Stranger  that  seekest  Rome  in  Rome, 

and  nought  "  74 

46.  Sonnet  :    ' '  Not  the  wild  wrath  of  flames  that  sky- 

ward shoot ' '  74 

47.  Sonnet  :    ' '  The  Berecynthian  in  her  chariot ' '  75 

48.  Sonnet  :  "  Sleepe  that  most  heavenlye  of  all  boones 

is  deemed  ' '  75 

49.  Sonnet  :    ' '  When  I  could  taste  (as  nowe  no  more 

maye  be)  ' '  76 

50.  A  Thresher  of  Wheat  to  the  Wyndes  77 

51.  Sonnet  :    "I  hate  the  Florentines'  pelf-huntynge 

race  "  77 

52.  Sotmet :  ' '  Happie  is  he  that  from  a  f 2iire  voyige ' '         78 
LOUISE  LABE  (i  526-1 566) 

53.  Sonnet:     "While   that   mjme   eyes  with   woeful 

teares  doe  flood  ' '  78 

54.  Sonnet  :    ' '  Scarce  on  my  yieldynge  pillowe  doe  I 

bend  "  79 

REMI  BELLE AU  (i  528-1 577) 

55-  April  80 

ESTIENNE  PASQUIER  (1529-1615) 

56.  Sonnet  :    "  Thy  sighte  denied  when  deare  to  me  "       83 
OLIVIER  DE  MAGNY  (1530-1559) 

57.  Sonnet  :  ' '  Happye  the  man  beyonde  the  city's  hail  * '       83 
ESTIENNE  JODELLE  (1532-1573) 

58.  Sonnet:  "  As  one  astraye  within  the  forest  deepe  "       84 
JEAN-ANTOINE  DE  BAIF  (1532-1589) 

59.  Spring  Song  :    "  Idle  Winter's  colde  "  85 
GUY  DE  TOURS  (         ?         ) 

60.  Sonnet  :    "I  have  noe  eyes  save  when  on  her  I 

looke  "  87 

JEAN  DOUBLET  (         ?         ) 

61.  Song  :     "  Meseemeth   that   soe   manye   shafts   be 

notte "  87 

JEAN  PASSERAT  (1534-1602) 

62.  Ode  for  the  Fyrst  of  Maye  88 

63.  Villanelle  :   "I  have  lost  my  turtle  fleet  "  89 

64.  On  the  Death  of  Thulfene  the  Kynge's  Jester  90 
VAUQUELIN  DE  LA  FRESNAYE  (1535-1607) 

65.  Song  :    "  Love  be  mute,  but  take  thyne  arc  "  91 

66.  Sonnet  :    "  O  pleasant  W3mde  whose  balmye  breath 

dothfiU"  91 


CONTENTS 

GUILLAUME  DU  BARTAS  (1544-1590)  Page 

67.  The  Pyrenees  92 
PHILIPPE  DESPORTES  (1546-1606) 

68.  Villanelle  :  "  Rosette,  because  I  stayed  awaye  "  93 

69.  Of  a  Fountayne  94 

70.  On  the  Death  of  Diana  94 
CATHERINE  DES  ROCHES  (i  550-1 587) 

71.  Quatrain  on  Achilles  95 
THEODORE-AGRIPPA   D'AUBIGNE  (1551-1630) 

72.  Sonnet  to  the  Kynge  95 


BOOK  III 

FRANCOIS  DE  MALHERBE  (1555-1628) 

73.  Consolation  to  M.  de  P^rier  99 

74.  On  the  Death  of  his  Son  100 
MADEMOISELLE  DE  GOURNAY  (1566-1645) 

75.  Quatrain  on  a  Picture  of  Joan  of  Arc  lOl 

MATHURIN  REGNIER  (1573-1613) 

76.  Stanzas  lOl 

77.  A  Confession  in  brief  102 

78.  His  own  Epitaph  '   104 
FRAN9OIS  MAYNARD  (1582-1642) 

79.  "  Howe  faire  a  destiny  'twould  be  "  Z04 

80.  Epitaph  Z04 
THEOPHILE  DE  VIAU  (1590-1626) 

81.  The  Boatmen  105 
MARC-ANTOINE  DE  SAINT-AMANT  (1594-1661) 

82.  The  Rising  Sun  106 
DENIS  SANGUIN  DE  SAINT-PAVIN  (1595-1670) 

83.  Epigram  107 
VINCENT  VOITURE  (1598-1648) 

84.  Rondeau  :   "In  good  plain  French  "  108 
PIERRE  CORNEILLE  (i  606-1 684) 

85.  Stanzas  to  the  Marquise  108 
PAUL  SCARRON  (1610-1660) 

86.  His  own  Epitaph  no 
ISAAC  DE  BENSERADE  (1612-1691) 

87.  For  Madame  no 
JEAN  DE  LA  FONTAINE  (1621-1695) 

88.  The  Grasshopper  and  the  Ant  ni 

89.  The  Rat  who  withdrew  from  the  World  112 

90.  The  Donkey  loaded  with  Relics  113 


CONTENTS  xi 

JEAN  DE  LA  FONTAINE  (continued)  Page 

91.  The  Oak  and  the  Reed  113 

92.  The  Ass  clothed  in  the  Lion's  Skin  1 14 

JEAN-BAPTISTE  POQUELIN  DE  MOLIERE  (1622-1673) 

93.  To  Monsieur  Le  Vayer  on  the  Death  of  his  Son  115 
PHILIPPE  QUINAULT  (1635-1688) 

94.  The  Song  of  Pluto  Zl6 

JEAN  RACINE  (1639-1699) 

95.  Hymn  translated  from  the  Roman  Brevijiry  117 

GUILLAUME  AMFRYE,  ABBE  DE  CHAULIEU  (1639-1720) 

96.  To  the  Solitude  of  Fontenay  118 

CHARLES  RIVIERE  DU  FRESNY  (1648-1724) 

97.  The  Next  Days  119 
JEAN-BAPTISTE  ROUSSEAU  (1670-1741) 

98    Love  120 
FRANCOIS-MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE  (i  694-1 778) 

99.  To  Madame  LuUin  120 

100.  To  M.  Gr^try  122 

1 01.  For  a  Statue  of  Love  122 

102.  On  Jean  Fr^ron  122 
PONCE-DENIS  ECOUCHARD  LEBRUN  (1729-1807) 

103.  Dialogue  between  a  poor  Poet  and  the  Author  122 
JEAN-FRAN9OIS  DUCIS  (1733-1816) 

104.  To  my  Brook  123 
EVARISTE  DE  PARNY  (i  754-1 801) 

105.  On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Girl  134 

ANDRE  CHiNIER  (1762-1794) 

106.  A  Young  Man  125 

107.  To  Chromis  125 

108.  Clytie  126 

109.  The  Flute  126 
no.  The  Nymph  asleep  127 

111.  The  Heifer  127 

112.  The  Young  Captive  127 

MARIE-JOSEPH  CHENIER  (1764-1811) 

113.  Hymn  :   "  Source  of  all  truth,  blasphemed  by  every 

liar"  129 

ANTOINE- VINCENT  ARNAULT  (i  766-1 834) 

114.  The  Dead  Leaf  130 


3rii  CONTENTS 


BOOK  IV 

PIERRE-JEAN  DE  BERANGER  (1780-1857)  Page 

115.  The  Swallows  133 

116.  Vile  Spring  1  134 

MARCELINE  DESBORDES-VALMORE  (1786-1859) 

117'  The  Roses  of  Saadi  135 

ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE  (1790-1869) 

118.  The  Lake  136 

119.  The  Butterfly  138 

120.  Memory  and  Hope  Z39 

121.  The  West  140 

EMILE  DESCHAMPS  (1791-1871) 

122.  Do  not  believe  141 

123.  The  Unknown  142 

ALFRED  DE  VIGNY  (1797-1863) 

124.  The  Snow  143 

125.  The  Shepherd's  Hut  144 

126.  The  Sound  of  the  Horn  147 

VICTOR  HUGO  (1802-1885) 

127.  The  Song  of  the  Prow-Gilders  149 
128/ Song  :  "  Toward  your  scented  garden,  Sweet  "  152 

129.  "  Since  from  thy  brimming  chalice  ..'!'."  152 

130.  Guitar  Song                                                 "  153 

131.  The  Vision  156 

132.  Childhood  156 

133.  June  Nights  157 

134.  The  Sleeper's  Prayer  157 

135.  The  Grave  and  the  Rose  158 

136.  "  I  will  set  out  to-morrow  ..."  158 

137.  "  O  France,  when  thou  art  prone  and  bound  "  159 

138.  The  Children  of  the  Poor  160 

139.  The  Sower  161 

140.  The  Bridge  162 

141.  Wintry  Weather  163 

142.  The  Swallow's  Nest  163 

143.  On  the  Dunes  165 

144.  The  Colossus  of  Rhodes  167 

JULIEN-AUGUSTE-PELAGE  BRIZEUX  (1803-1858) 

145.  The  Nest  167 

146.  The  Night  of  the  Dead  168 

EVARISTE  BOULAY-PATY  (1804-1864) 

147.  The  Bout  Z69 


CONTENTS  xiii 

CHARLES-AUGUSTIN  SAINTE-BEUVE  (1804-1869)]  Page 

148.  Sonnet:  "  Sleepless  upon  my  bed,  my  spirit's  force  "    170 

AUGUSTE  BARBIER  (i  805-1882) 

149.  The  Idol  171 

150.  Michael  Angelo  171 

FELIX  ARVERS  (1806-1850) 

151.  Sonnet  :    "  My  soul  doth  grope,  a  darkened  way  I 

go  ' '  172 
GERARD  DE  NERVAL  (1808-1855) 

152.  The  Glorified  173 

153.  Fantasy  173 

154.  Sonnet  :    "  Free-thinker  !  dost  thou  deem  that 

only  man  "  174 

155.  El  Desdichado  175 
ALFRED  DE  MUSSET  (1810-1857) 

156.  Ballad  to  the  Moon  175 

157.  "  Pale  star  of  evening  .  .  ."•  179 

158.  Song  :    "  Brave  knight  that  to^the  warjdoth  go  "        180 

159.  On  a  Dead  Girl  180 

160.  The  Muse's  Wooing  182 

161.  Consolation  182 

162.  Sorrow  183 

163.  Fortunio's  Song  184 

164.  Song  :   "  When  men  do  find  upon  a  day  "                   185 

THEOPHILE  GAUTIER  (1811-1872) 

165.  Terza  Rima  185 

166.  Boat  Song  187 

167.  Art  188 

168.  The  Cloud  190 

169.  Song  :    "  The  butterflies  that  are  the  snow's  own 

hue"  191 

BOOK  V 

VICTOR  DE  LAPRADE  (1812-1883) 

170.  The  Summits  195 
LOUISE  ACKERMANN  (1813-1890) 

171.  Immortal  Love  196 

JOSEPHIN  SOULARY  (1815-1891) 

172.  The  Two  Roses  197 

173.  Vain  Dreams  197 

174.  The  Scarecrow  198 
LECONTE  DE  LISLE  (1818-1894) 

175.  The  Ravine  of  Saint-Gilles  199 

176.  Hialmar's  Heart  20i 


xiv  CONTENTS 

LECONTE  DE  LISLE  (continued)  Page 

177.  The  Spring  •         203 

178.  Night  204 

179.  Tre  Fila  d'Oro  205 

180.  The  Black  Panther  206 

181.  The  Showmen  207 

182.  After  a  Thousand  Years  208 

183.  The  Lion's  Death  209 

184.  A  Festival  209 

185.  Cameo  2IO 

186.  The  Supreme  Consummation  211 

187.  Noon  21X 
CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE  (i  821-1867) 

188.  Beauty  214 

189.  The  Giantess  2x4 

190.  Twilit  Harmony  215 

191.  My  Former  Life  215 

192.  The  Pit  216 

193.  Hymn  217 

194.  Exotic  Perfume  217 

195.  The  Dead  Mistresa  218 

196.  Sin  218 

197.  Self-communing  219 

198.  Death  219 
HENRI  MURGER  (1822-1861) 

199.  Memories  220 
LOUIS  BOUILHET  (1822-1869) 

200.  Spring  221 
LOUIS  MENARD  (1822-1901) 

201.  Stoicism  222 

THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE  (i  823-1 891) 

202.  Ballade  of  the  Forest  Haunters  223 

203.  To  the  Font-Georges  224 

204.  To  Th6ophile  Gautier  227 

205.  "  We'll  go  no  more  the  woodland  way  ..."  228 
EUGENE  MANUEL  (1823-1901) 

206.  The  Cradle  229 
ANDRE  THEURIET  (1833-1907) 

207.  The  Vine  in  Blossom  229 
ARMAND  SILVESTRE  (1837-1901) 

208.  The  Venus  of  Milo  231 

209.  Immortality  232 

210.  Prometheus  232 
LEON  DIERX  (1838-1912) 

211.  October  Evening  233 

212.  Winter  Day  233 


CONTENTS  XV 

ACHILLE  MILLIEN  (1838-         )  \         Page 

213.  The  Three  Sisters  234 
SULLY  PRUDHOMME  (1839-1907) 

214.  The  Inheritor  235 

215.  The  Stranger  235 

216.  Bodies  and  Souls  236 

217.  The  Great  Bear  237 

218.  Chains  237 

219.  Hsrmn  to  Desire  238 

EMIL  BL^MONT  (1839-         ) 

220.  The  Fall  of  the  Year  238 
VILLIERS  DE  L'lSLE-ADAM  (1840-1889) 

221.  Avowal  239 
HENRI  CAZALIS  (i  840-1909) 

222.  Storm  in  the  Night  240 

223.  The  Harps  of  David  241 

224.  For  Ever  242 


BOOK  VI 

ST^PHANE  MALLARM^  (1842-1898) 

225.  Apparition  247 

226.  Wind  from  the  Sea  247 

JOSE-MARIA  DE  HEREDIA  (1842-1905) 

227.  Centaurs'  Flight  248 

228.  The  Tepidarium  249 

229.  To  a  Triumpher  249 

230.  The  Rose  Window  250 

231.  On  the  Old  Bridge  250 

232.  The  Vision  of  Khem  251 

233.  Antique  Coin  253 

234.  The  Bath  253 
235-  Wind  from  the  Sea  254 

236.  The  Bed  254 

FRAN9OIS  COPPEE  (1842-1908) 

237.  The  Ruined  Heart  255 

CATULLE  MEND^S  (1842-1909) 

238.  Consentment  255 

239.  Exhortation  257 

240.  Soror  Dolorosa  257 
PAUL  VERLAINE  (1844-1896) 

241.  Sonnet  :   "  God  spake  and  said  ..."  258 

242.  ' '  The  sky  above  the  roofing  lies  ' '  259 

243.  "  O  hearken  the  so  gentle  plaint  "  259 

b 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


PAUL  VERLAINE  (continued) 

244.  My  Familiar  Dream 

245.  Green 

246.  Autumn  Song 

247.  "  Ere  thy  soft  ray  be  lost  " 

248.  Nevermore 

249.  A  Forgotten  Tune 

250.  Sonnet  :  "All  through  the  day  down  poured  the 

traitorous  flame  ' ' 
TRISTAN  CORBI^RE  (i 845-1 875) 

251.  Letter  from  Mexico 
GEORGES  BOUTELLEAU  (1846-         ) 

252.  The  Avenue 

253.  The  Wild  Doves 
GABRIEL  VICAIRE  (i 848-1900) 

254.  Dream  Song 

255.  Poor  Liza 

AUGUSTE  ANGELLIER  (1848-1911) 

256.  Sonnet  Dedicatory 

257.  Sonnet  :  ' '  Thus  shall  we  live  our  separate  lives 

unknit" 
JEAN  RICHEPIN  (1849-        ) 

258.  The  Song  of  the  Gypsy  Boy 

259.  Proud  Sonnet 

260.  The  Song  of  the  Begging  Cripple 

261.  The  Beggar's  Look 
LOUIS  TIERCELIN  (1849-        ) 

262.  Sunset  at  Kerazur 


Page 
260 
261 
262 
262 
263 
264 

264 
265 

266 
267 

268 
269 

272 

273 

273 
274 
275 
276 

277 


BOOK  VII 

ARTHUR  RIMBAUD  (1851-1891) 

263.  Sensation 

GEORGES  RODENBACH  (1855-1898) 

264.  "  In  tiny  townships  ..." 

265.  Gentleness  of  Evening 

JEAN  MOREAS  (1856-1910) 

266.  A  Young  Girl's  Song 

267.  Elegy 

268.  •' Cast  down  these  lilies  .  .  ." 
HENRI-CHARLES  READ  (i  857-1 876) 

269.  "  I  think  that  God  ..." 
EDMOND  HARAUCOURT  (1857-        ) 

270.  The  Loveliest  Verses 


281 

281 
282 

283 
283 
285 

28S 
286 


CONTENTS  xvii 

AUGUSTE  GAUD  (1857-        )  Page 

271.  The  Song  of  the  Rain  287 

ALBERT  SAMAIN  (1858-1900) 

272.  "  There  sometimes  come  strange  evenings  ..."  288 

273.  Autumn  290 
274    A  Viol's  Plaint  290 

275.  Cleopatra  291 

276.  Vigil  292 

ANATOLE  LE  BRAZ  (1859-        ) 

277.  The  Song  of  Ahes  292 

CHARLES  VAN  LERBERGHE  (1861-1907) 

278.  Offering  to  a  Dead  Friend  293 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK  (1862-        ) 

279.  The  Seven  Maids  of  Orlamonde  294 

GRfeGOIRE  LE  ROY  (1862-        ) 

280.  Granny  spins  294 

STUART  MERRILL  (1863-1915) 

281.  Easter  Song  295 

282.  "  My  brow  is  pale  upon  thy  knees  "  296 

HENRI  DE  REGNIER  (1864-  ) 

283.  Apparition  297 

284.  The  Secret  298 

285.  Experience  298 

286.  Odelette  299 

287.  On  the  Strand  300 

FRANCIS  VIELE-GRIFFIN  (1864-        ) 

288.  Song  300 

ANDRE  FONTAINAS  (1865-        ) 

289.  Sonnet :   "Sea-road  a-tremble  where  the  dawn- 

light  swoons "  301 

ANDRE-FERDINAND  HEROLD  (1865-        ) 

290.  Sonnet  :    "  Belov6d,   all  the  dust  has  turned  to 

flower "  302 

291.  Sonnet  :    "  Now  with  the  black  grape's  blood  the 

barrels  flow  ' '  302 

ROBERT  D'HUMIERES  (1868-1915) 

292.  The  Song  of  the  Figure-Head  303 

PAUL  FORT  (1872-        ) 

293.  "  This  Girl  is  dead  "  304 
294    "  What  joy  when  flute  and  violin  ..."  304 

HENRY  BATAILLE  (1872-        ) 

295.  Eventimes  305 


xviii  CONTENTS 

ANDRE  RI VOIRE  (1872-        )  Page 

296.  "Pale    and    slow,    in    her   summer's   vesture    so 

pale "  306 
CAMILLE  MAUCLAIR  (1872-         ) 

297.  The  Garth  307 

298.  Questioning  308 
FERNAND  GREGH  (1873-         ) 

299.  "  I  have  grieved  too  much  ..."  308 

CHARLES  GUERIN  (1873-1907) 

300.  Out  of  the  Deep  309 


NOTES  3" 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  327 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  329 


INTRODUCTION 


GENERAL 

IN  a  western  suburb  of  London,  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  the  coal-yards  contiguous  to  the 
railway  sidings  of  Paddington  Station,  may  be 
seen  a  house  bearing  this  motto  in  large  letters  above 
its  doorway  :  "  Ce  qui  doit  ^tre  sera. "  "  What  must 
be  must,"  I  rendered  it  on  first  passing,  reading  its 
message  as  that  of  a  fatalist  and  stoic  thinker.  And 
then  doubt  assailed  me.  "What  ought  to  be  shall 
be,"  I  varied  it,  at  once  turning  its  author  into  one 
not  at  all  resigned  to  things  as  they  are,  but  sworn 
heroically  to  make  the  right  prevail.  But  further 
deliberation  revealed  the  rightness  of  my  first  impres- 
sion, for  the  second  interpretation  would  need  de- 
vrait  in  place  of  doit  to  justify  it.  This  example,  how- 
ever, may  stand  as  an  illustration  of  the  truth  that, 
in  translation,  it  is  a  small  thing  to  know,  etymologi- 
cally,  the  literal  equivalent  of  foreign  words,  the 
important  thing  being  to  understand  their  intention, 
and  to  render  their  eflfect  in  your  own  way.  "  II  s'est 
brul6  le  cerveau  "  means  "  He  blew  out  his  brains," 
and  to  insist  that  hruler  means  burn  is  only  to  make 
nonsense  of  the  phrase  by  suggesting  that  some  one 
either  worried  himself  into  a  brain-fever  or  worked 
himself  into  a  passion. 

This  being  so  with  a  simple  prose  statement,  the 


2  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

matter  is  obviously  ten  times  more  intricate  when  we 
come  to  poetry,  where  subtleties  of  sound  are  to  be 
reproduced  and  the  sense  preserved,  while  duly  con- 
forming to  the  tyrannous  exigencies  of  rhyme  and 
metre.  Let  it  be  granted,  at  once,  that  it  cannot  be 
done  ;  but,  since  the  whole  reason  of  this  book  is  the 
determination  to  attempt  it,  let  us  see  how  best  to 
guard  against  futility. 

In  Leoncavallo 'swell-known  operetta  "  I  Pagliacci" 
the  strolling  player  invites  the  peasant  rout  to  assemble 
for  a  performance  a  venti  tre  ore,  the  last  word  filling 
magnificently  the  swelling  finale  of  the  musical 
phrase  to  which  it  is  wedded,  and,  by  contrast  with 
the  meagre  dignity  of  its  bare  meaning,  achieving  a 
fine  effect  of  intentionally  mock  pomposity.  In  the 
English  version  of  this  the  tenor  is  made  to  sing  "  at 
seven  you're  invited,"  and  the  translation  is  bad,  not 
from  any  disparity  of  meaning,  but  because  two  hard 
dentals  are  made  to  replace  a  soft  "  r  "  which  is  hardly 
more  than  a  liaison  between  two  open  vowels.  And 
this  is  done  to  the  great  hurt  of  the  singer  and  his 
hearers — who  are  in  this  case,  surely,  the  only  people 
whom  such  a  version  can  concern.  When  we  come 
to  the  translation  of  works  of  pure  literature,  and 
especially  of  poetry,  the  same  difficulties  persist,  while 
the  responsibilities  of  the  translator  are  extended  to  a 
wider  audience,  and  for  more  permanent  reasons. 

In  the  case  of  the  interpretation  of  French,  which  is 
undoubtedly  the  foreign  language  best  known  among 
our  countrymen,  the  apparent  easiness  of  translation 
hides  one  of  the  greatest  pitfalls,  for  we  have  filched 
from  our  Gallic  cousins  a  good  round  hundred  of 
common  words  which  we  now  use  to  express  meanings 
a  world  away  from  those  of  their  native  intention, 
or,  conversely,  we  have  kept  the  meaning  which  the 


INTRODUCTION  8 

Norman  gave  them,  but  which  the  modern  Frenchman 
has  forgotten  or  differently  applied.  The  English 
translator  who  should  set  down  grief,  large,  re- 
sume or  spiritual  as  equivalents  for  the  like  words 
when  found  in  his  French  text  would  produce  a 
most  unpardonable  parody  of  his  original.  In  other 
cases,  where  words  common  to  the  two  tongues  have 
retained  identity  of  meaning,  they  are  sometimes 
enhaloed  by  poetic  suggestion  in  the  one  while  con- 
noting no  more  than  their  bare  prose  meaning  in  the 
other,  so  that  their  retention  in  translation,  however 
correct  literally,  would  be  no  less  of  an  outrage  by 
reducing  to  a  hireling's  rank  what  should  remain 
aloof  and  regal.  It  may,  indeed,  almost  be  taken  as 
an  axiom  that  words  from  a  Latin  or  French  source, 
so  singularly  apt  for  scientific  exposition,  from  the 
exactness  with  which  they  define  material  substance 
or  action,  can  never  fitly  be  used  in  poetry,  where 
words,  to  be  effective,  must  carry  us  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  their  dictionary  schedule,  and  bear  with 
them  the  redolence  of  all  the  dead  lips  that  have 
ever  breathed  them.  To  discover  why  it  is  that 
build  and  keep  may  go  to  the  stirring  of  feelings 
that  construct  and  preserve  could  never  help  to 
enkindle,  would  lead  us  into  questions  of  psychology 
and  the  relation  between  language  and  racial  senti- 
ment ;  for  the  least  cultured  feel  at  once  the  incon- 
gruity of  imported  words  when  used  in  an  appeal  to 
those  "  simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate  "  emotions 
that  are  at  the  bottom  of  all  poetry.  So  that  when 
the  late  Mr.  John  Payne,  (to  whose  fine  zeal  and 
accomplishment  all  lovers  of  that  splendid  wastrel 
Francois  Villon  are  for  ever  beholden),  writes  "  but  I 
desist,"  we  are  conscious  at  once  of  a  dissonance 
which  no  plea  of  fidelity  to  the  French  ' '  Je  me  d^siste" 


4  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

can  altogether  palliate.  No  version  of  poetry,  how- 
ever faithful,  can  be  good  which  does  not  read  like 
poetry  :  to  reproduce  a  poet's  precise  wording  is  a 
very  doubtful  need,  and  in  any  case  an  impossible  one  ; 
to  reproduce  his  effect  may  be  done  if  we  approach 
the  task  in  prayer  and  fasting,  steadily  set  on  forget- 
ting his  actual  words  as  soon  as  we  have  mastered 
their  meaning  and  got  the  massed  sound  of  them 
tyrannously  resonant  in  our  ears.  The  best  trans- 
lators of  poetry  are,  indeed,  those  who  are  least  scru- 
pulous of  fidelity  in  detail  ;  they  slur  over  the  untrans- 
latable, and  insinuate  new  words  and  turnings  of  the 
original  thought  that  are  so  perfectly  in  tune  with 
their  originals  as  to  render  them  far  less  haltingly 
than  meticulous  followers  of  the  text.  The  classic 
example  of  the  recasting  of  old  matter  in  a  new  mould 
is,  of  course,  Fitzgerald's  rendering  of  the  "  Rubaiyat 
of  Omar  Khayyam,"  where,  according  to  competent 
witness,  the  imaginative  insight  of  the  translator 
gave  a  new  lease  of  life  to  a  work  which,  on  its  native 
merits,  was  of  quite  secondary  rank  in  the  immortal 
choirs. 

The  real  task  of  a  translator  is  that  of  re-creating, 
and  unless  he  can  bring  to  his  original  as  much  as  he 
takes  from  it,  he  had  far  better  leave  it  alone.  To  a 
strict  scholar  this  definition  of  translation  may  appear 
to  be  just  what  translation  is  not  ;  but,  though  the 
makers  of  mere  cribs  have  their  uses,  they  are  not 
such  as  concern  permanent  literature,  nor  do  they 
help  us  at  all  to  a  relish  of  its  savour. 
^'i^As  an  illustration  of  my  argument,  I  take  a  sonnet 
by  Jos^phin  Soulary,  the  well-known  "  Reves  Ambi- 
tieux  "  : 

Si  j'avais  un  arpent  de  sol,  mont,  val  ou  plaine, 
Avec  un  filet  d'eau,  torrent,  source  ou  ruisseau. 


INTRODUCTION  6 

J'y  planterais  un  arbre,  olivier,  saule  ou  fr€ne, 
J'y  batirais  un  toit,  chaume,  tuile  ou  roseau. 

Sur  mon  arbre,  un  doux  nid,  gramen,  duvet  ou  laine, 
Reticndrait  un  chanteur,  pinson,  merle  ou  moineau  ; 
Sous  mon  toit,  un  doux  lit,  hamac,  natte  ou  berceau, 
Retiendrait  une  enfant,  blonde,  brune  ou  ch&taine. 

Je  ne  veux  qu'un  arpent  ;  pour  le  mesurer  mieux, 
Je  dirais  k  I'enfant  la  plus  belle  k  mes  yeux  : 
"  Tiens-toi  debout  devant  le  soleil  qui  se  live  ; 

"  Aussi  loin  que  ton  ombre  ira  sur  le  gazon, 

Aussi  loin  je  m'en  vais  tracer  mon  horizon  " — 

Tout  bonheur  que  la  main  n'atteint  pas  n'est  qu'un  r£ve. 

It  appears  at  once  that  the  longer-syllabled  line  of  the 
French  sonnet  has  a  lightness  and  speed  of  rhythm 
that  can  in  no  wise  be  rendered  by  the  staid  ten- 
syllabled  line  of  the  English  sonnet-form,  while  the 
customary  French  pronunciation  of  words  with  a 
terminal  e,  (when  sang  to  music  or  recited  in  verse), 
unconsciously  harking  back  to  the  penultimate  em- 
phasis of  their  Italian  forbears,  gives  to  plaine, 
frene,  laine,  chdtaine,  leve,  and  rive  an  effect  which 
is  common  to  those  rhymes  in  English  known  as 
double  or  feminine.  Lastly,  the  sestet  opens  with 
an  isolated  couplet  which  cannot  effectively  be 
paralleled  in  the  English  sonnet-form,  where  such 
a  pairing  of  rhymes  is  seldom  met  with  save  at 
the  end.  To  sum  up,  we  find  that  to  give  anything 
like  a  true  echo  of  the  poet's  singing  we  must  have 
(a)  a  longer  line,  (b)  speedier  movement,  (c)  an 
interspersion  of  feminine  endings.  We  can  hardly 
make  these  last  rhyme  as  Soulary  has  done,  for  such 
terminals  are  scarcer  in  English,  and  if  our  lines  were 
so  yoked  they  would  be  sure  to  chafe  noisily  against 
the  coupling.  Nor  will  a  right  music  be  got  by  using 
the  same  number  of  syllables  to  each  line,  for  English 


6  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

lines  are  swayed  by  stress  to  a  degree  undreamt  of  in 
French  prosody,  and  we  cannot  get  lightness  of 
movement  without  sharpness  of  accentuation. 

Next  we  find  that  the  sentiment  to  be  expressed  is 
the  renunciation  of  all  worldly  pomp  and  wealth  for 
the  humbler  but  more  perdurable  joys  of  the  hearth- 
stone and  heaven's  free  air.  To  render  torrent, 
source  ou  ruisseau  in  English  would  sound  queerly,  for 
we  have  not  that  habit  of  nice  differentiation  which 
is  always  dominant  in  the  best  French,  and  in  poetry 
especially  we  prefer  to  hint  the  thing  by  its  effect 
rather  than  to  state  it  specifically.  Again,  how  shall 
we  get  the  effect  of  homeliness  if  we  speak  of  plant- 
ing an  olive-tree  in  our  imaginary  domain  ?  Would 
not  such  husbandry  suggest  to  us  the  exotic  and  the 
sumptuary,  known  alone  to  the  world  that  dawdles 
winter  through  on  the  Riviera,  returning  for  the 
London  season  to  the  joys  of  the  Row  and  the  glories 
of  a  box  at  Covent  Garden  ?  What  would  the  author 
have  said  had  he  been  English  ?  Thorn-hush,  likely 
enough  ;  for  it  is  a  tree  as  common  with  us  as  olives 
in  Provence,  and  the  staple  of  those  hedgerows  that 
are  one  of  our  most  widespread  joys.  And  then 
enfant  cannot  be  rendered  simply  by  child,  for  its 
accompanying  adjectives  will  not  reveal  the  sex  as 
do  the  French  ones  :  lassie,  however,  will  do  this 
for  us,  and  bring  with  it  the  right  homely  accent. 
Here,  then,  is  our  version  : 

Had  I  but  an  acre  of  loam  on  hill  or  valley, 

Fed  by  a  stream  that  fell  or  loitered  by, 
There  I'd  plant  an  ash-tree,  a  thorn -bush  or  a  willow. 

There  I'd  build  a  low  roof  between  me  and  the  sky. 
On  my  tree  a  soft  nest,  feather-lined  or  woolly, 

There  should  hold  a  singing-bird — sparrow,  finch  or  merle  ; 
Underneath  my  own  roof,  a  bairnie  in  the  cradle 

Garlanding  the  pillow  with  her  brown  or  yellow  curl. 


INTRODUCTION  7 

All  I  want's  an  acre  ;  and  so  to  measure  rightly, 

I  would  take  the  lassie  bonniest  to  me  ; 
"  Stand  thou  uprightly  " — so  should  be  my  bidding — 

"  Front  the  rising  sunbeam."     So,  surely  should  I  see. 
' '  Far  as  thy  shade  on  the  grassy  levels  printed, 

Just  so  far  my  faring,  no  farther  than  the  shade's  " — 
All  the  lure  of  bliss  that's  far  beyond  fulfilment 

Holds  no  more  for  me  than  a  fickle  dresun  that  fades. 

And  if  these  few  precepts  seem  to  have  failed  me  in 
my  own  practice,  I  would  still  say  with  the  preacher, 
"  Do  as  I  say,  if  not  as  I  do,"  only  bidding  the  trans- 
lator bring  a  better  skill  to  the  exploit. 


II 

PARTICULAR 

THIS  much  was  written  before  the  following  col- 
lection had  been  achieved,  and  it  soon  became 
evident  to  the  writer  that  he  was  giving  but 
random  heed  to  his  own  precepts.  To  take  the 
first  point,  it  is  obvious  that  a  rondeau,  a  ballade, 
or  a  villanelle  cannot  properly  be  rendered  without 
fidelity  to  its  original  form.  And  despite  the  example 
given  above,  the  same  rule  must  generally  hold  good 
for  the  sonnet  ;  and  he  would  be  a  bold  man  who 
should  dare  to  render  Heredia  otherwise  than  in  a 
sequence  of  eight  and  six.  And  where  anything  in 
the  nature  of  a  refrain  appears  (as  in  the  stanzas  by 
Samain  towards  the  end  of  the  collection)  no  version 
can  hope  to  achieve  a  right  effect  without  reproducing 
the  premeditated  monotony  of  the  original  recurrent 
lines. 

Next,  it  is  certainly  true  in  many  cases  that  words 
of  foreign  origin  are  more,  rather  than  less,  effective 
than  those  of  home  growth.    Furnace  is  more  apt 


8  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

to  suggest  a  spacious  horror  than  oven,  which  calls 
up  only  a  domestic  and  somewhat  trivial  image, 
though  the  words  be  in  their  root-meaning  synony- 
mous. In  brief,  everything  depends  upon  the  sugges- 
tion to  be  conveyed,  the  nearness  or  remoteness, 
whether  in  time  or  space,  of  the  atmosphere,  and  the 
degree  of  intimacy  or  aloofness  which  the  poet  puts 
into  the  pitch  of  his  voice. 

Though  my  aim  has  not  been  to  reproduce  what  has 
been  often,  (and  always  falsely),  termed  "  a  line-for- 
line  rendering  in  the  original  metre,"  I  must  confess 
to  having  found  it  easier  to  achieve  something  that  is 
nearer  this  misleading  definition  than  the  more 
valuable  recasting  prefigured  above.  And  that  is 
only  another  way  of  saying  that  it  is  easier  to  be  a 
scholar  than  a  poet,  and  a  repetition  of  the  disclaimer 
implied  in  my  sub-title. 

So  much  that  is  good,  (at  times  unsurpassably  so), 
has  been  done  by  Lang,  Wyndham,  Robertson  and 
others  in  the  past,  and  by  Miss  Margaret  Jourdain, 
Mr.  Eugene  Mason  and  Mr.  Arthur  S>mons  among 
living  workers,  (not  to  mention  the  occasional  triumphs 
of  original  poets  from  Spenser  to  Swinburne,  or  of 
those  who  have  been  content  to  gather  from  a  single 
furrow  of  the  poetic  field),  that  the  present  collection 
must  argue  some  temerity  in  its  maker  ;  but  it  had 
never  been  attempted  had  not  the  difficulties  of  antho- 
logizing the  best  versions  by  other  hands  been  found 
so  nearly  insuperable  as  to  lead  to  despair  in  the 
undertaking.  Here  is  an  attempt  at  a  representative 
choice,  but  the  judicious  will  see  that  the  translator 
has  done  what  he  could  rather  than  what  he  would, 
and  has  sometimes  given  better  credit  to  the  small 
singer  than  to  the  great  one.  The  omission  of  Ron- 
sard's  "  Mignonne,  allons  voir  si  la  rose,"  Vigny's 


INTRODUCTION  9 

"  Cor,"  and  Leconte  de  Lisle 's  "  Elfes,"  (to  cite  but 
three  among  many  missing  masterpieces),  is  a  tribute 
to  their  great  qualities  rather  than  a  slighting  of  them. 
The  high  proportion  of  sonnets  has  seemed  justified 
by  the  large  output  and  high  quality  shown  in  this 
form  throughout  nearly  the  whole  period  since  its 
introduction,  (even  Fontenelle  writing  a  good  one)  ; 
for  nothing  could  be  more  grotesquely  untrue  than 
the  casual  judgment  given  by  the  late  William  Sharp 
in  his  introduction  to  *  *  Sonnets  of  this  Century. ' ' 
But  it  may  be  legitimately  considered  a  failing  in  that 
some  numbers  have  won  their  places  more  a.  titre 
de  document  than  by  intrinsic  worth,  (either  in  their 
original  form  or  in  the  version  offered),  and  have  no 
better  plea  for  their  inclusion.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  but 
hope  that  the  short  period  of  Lenten  fare  offered  to 
readers  by  the  products  of  the  seventeenth  and  eigh- 
teenth centuries,  (to  which  the  consensus  of  cultivated 
opinion  in  France  gives  an  importance  which  we 
cannot  well  understand),  may  only  whet  their  appe- 
tites for  the  rich  banquet  of  the  last  century.  That 
this  period  occupies  more  than  one-half  of  the  book 
would  be  alone  justified  by  the  great  names  that 
figure  in  it  ;  but  an  epoch  of  almost  universal  literacy, 
while  diminishing  the  chance  of  our  losing  any  * '  mute 
inglorious  Milton,"  renders  articulate,  if  not  greater 
poets,  certainly  a  greater  number  of  them  and  a  more 
diversified  music.  Of  the  work  of  nearly  contem- 
porary writers  it  can  hardly  be  hoped  that  the  choice 
here  given  will  be  generally  considered  quite  repre- 
sentative ;  but  it  is  so  difficult  to  keep  rightly  informed 
and  critically  aloof  amid  the  trumpeting  and  dis- 
paragement of  rival  clans  whose  activities  seem  only 
to  bewilder  the  native  doctors,  that  a  mere  foreigner 
may  be  forgiven  for  including  frankly  what  happens 


10  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

to  appeal  to  him,  and  keeping  a  barred  door  whenever 
the  originals  seemed  to  belie  their  fame  or  baffle  his 
understanding,  or  whenever,  more  happily  effectual, 
he  could  make  no  approvable  rendering  of  the  beauty 
they  brought  him. 

In  this  section,  moreover,  the  copyrights  of  authors 
and  their  publishers  have  made  impossible  an  unre- 
stricted choice,  (already  hampered  in  respect  of  several 
Belgian  authors  by  the  German  occupation  of  their 
country,  which  precluded  all  negotiation  with  them)  ; 
but  I  am  glad  to  acknowledge  here  the  courtesy  and 
kindness  of  MM.  Anatole  le  Braz,  Andre  Fontainas, 
Paul  Fort,  Auguste  Gaud,  Fernand  Gregh,  Andre-Fer- 
dinand Herold,  Camille  Mauclair,  Henri  de  Regnier, 
and  Francis  Viel6-Griffin,  who  have  allowed  me  to 
print  versions  of  their  poems  ;  of  Mr.  Bernard  Miall, 
the  authorized  English  translator  of  the  poems  of  M. 
Maeterlinck,  and  of  his  publishers,  Messrs.  Methuen, 
who  confirm  his  leave  to  print  my  one  version  from 
the  work  of  that  author  ;  of  M.  Alphonse  Lemerre 
for  a  like  confirmation  in  respect  of  a  poem  by  M. 
Gaud  ;  of  M.  Edmond  Gu^rin,  representing  the  late 
Charles  Guerin  ;  of  M.  Albert  Mockel,  representing, 
(alone),  the  late  Charles  Van  Lerberghe  and,  (jointly 
with  M.  Harold),  the  late  Stuart  Merrill  ;  of  Mile. 
Louise  Read,  representing  the  late  Charles  Henri 
Read  ;  of  Mme.  Vve.  Robert  d'Humieres,  representing 
her  late  husband  ;  and,  finally,  of  M.  Alfred  Valette, 
whose  unstinting  generosity  has  enabled  me  to  repre- 
sent a  round  score  of  the  poets  originally  presented  to 
the  French  public  by  the  Mercure  de  France.  The 
dates  of  first  publication  have  been  carefully  collated, 
and  it  is  believed  that  no  piece  here  appearing  lacks 
proper  sanction  ;  but  if,  by  inadvertence,  I  should 
still  have  taken  '  *  French  leave, ' '  I  trust  that  no  un- 


INTRODUCTION  11 

kindness  may  interpret  it  as  an  attempt  to  filer  a 
Vanglaise — for  I  should  esteem  it  an  honour  for  my 
book  to  heal  feuds  rather  than  to  hasten  them,  and  to 
be  a  small  sign  of  the  sealing  in  fast  friendship  of  two 
peoples  now  drawn  closer  in  a  great  trial. 


Ill 

HISTORICAL 

SAVE  for  a  few  numbers  appearing  as  outriders  to 
the  procession,  and  in  proof  of  its  anticipation 
and  due  heralding,  the  following  pages  contain 
only  versions  of  that  poetry  which  in  the  widest  sense 
can  properly  be  said  to  belong  to  modern  French 
Literature — to  the  literature,  that  is  to  say,  which  is 
definitely  freed  from  the  mediaeval  bondage  both  as 
regards  the  language  employed  and  the  imaged  world 
in  which  it  delights  to  move. 

The  two  poets  who  inaugurate  this  period  are  in 
many  ways  typical  of  the  two  sharply  distinguished 
classes  into  which  men  were  then  divided — ^the  servitor, 
(as  distinguished  from  the  serf),  and  the  overlord  or 
patron.  Charles  d 'Orleans,  (1391-1465),  the  earlier 
of  the  two,  (and  at  least  a  casual  patron  of  the  later 
and  unthrifty  one),  was  of  the  blood  royal,  and  begot 
a  child  who  became  King  of  France  as  the  twelfth 
Louis.  Born  of  an  Italian  mother,  the  talented 
Valentine  of  Milan,  he  wholly  lacked  that  implaca- 
bility of  worldly  pride  necessary  in  an  heir  to  great 
power.  A  child  when  his  father  was  murdered  by  the 
Burgundians  who  challenged  his  kingship,  he  seems 
thereafter  to  have  been  no  more  than  flotsam  on  the 
tide  of  political  influence  of  which  he  should  more 


12  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

properly  have  been  the  controller.  Simple,  melan- 
choly and  refined,  so  far  as  any  one  may  judge  by  the 
wistfulness  and  most  delicate  nicety  displayed  in  the 
medley  of  laments,  prayers,  billets-doux,  and  catches 
which  he  has  left  us,  he  must  have  been  ill  at  ease  at 
Azincourt,  where  he  was  taken  prisoner,  being  borne 
thence  to  England  to  spend  twenty-five  years  as  a 
hostage  of  war.  His  work,  cast  almost  wholly  in  the 
very  restricted  form  of  the  ballade  and  the  rondeau, 
is  seldom  less  than  pretty,  while  at  times  perfect  ease 
and  aptness  of  language  wedded  to  sincere,  if  not 
very  profound,  feeling,  justify  his  outstanding  impor- 
tance in  the  history  of  a  literature  that  was  feeling  its 
way  toward  a  fixed  form  and  a  common  vocabulary. 
As  was  but  likely  from  his  station  in  the  world  and 
the  tradition  of  his  upbringing,  his  glance  was  held 
rather  by  the  waning  glamour  of  the  mediaeval  age 
from  which  men  were  just  then  emerging,  and  his 
gentle  muse  finds  her  best  delight  in  pathways  worn 
for  her  by  its  ritual,  in  a  certain  sense  of  courtly 
behaviour  and  the  unspoiled  relish  of  good  fellowship 
and  good  cheer.  It  was  these  two  things  of  which 
Francois  Villon,  (1431-  ?  ),  knew  but  little,  if  we  may 
judge  by  the  poems  which  he  left  behind  him,  (nearly 
all  of  them  being  directly  or  implicitly  autobio- 
graphical), evil  fellowship  and  a  bare  platter  having 
generally  fallen  to  the  lot  of  this  thriftless  dependent 
of  Guillaume,  priest  of  the  parish  of  Villon,  whose 
name  by  adoption  he  bore.  Death  as  the  pitiless 
pursuer  is  his  predominant  theme,  and  it  is  not, 
perhaps,  going  too  far  if  we  explain  this  obsession  by 
the  accidents  of  a  vagabond  existence  in  which  the 
sharp  spur  of  hunger  drove  him  to  burgling  or  the 
slitting  of  throats.  It  may  be,  of  course,  that  he  was 
wastrel  in  fibre,  and  blamed  fortune  (in  ballade  metre) 


INTRODUCTION  18 

for  ills  that  were  due  rather  to  his  own  evil  impulse 
or  instability.  However  that  may  be,  whatever  he 
wrote  bears  with  it  something  of  a  stark  sincerity 
that  makes  nearly  all  the  work  of  his  contemporaries 
and  forerunners  seem  no  more  than  pretty  fooling. 
The  vagrom  feelings  which  they  tangled  in  a  network 
of  nimble  conceits  Villon  felt  in  his  very  marrow,  and 
set  down  wholly  without  ceremonial  trappings  ;  so 
that,  in  spite  of  being  written  in  a  slang  common  in 
his  day  on  the  lips  of  cut-throats  and  street  harpies, 
his  work  is  far  and  away  the  most  vital  produced  in 
his  lifetime,  or  indeed  during  the  hundred  years  that 
preceded  or  that  followed  it.  It  is  full  of  the  cutting 
humour  of  self-contempt  and  self-pity,  with  a  good 
deal  of  sly  railing  against  those  betters  of  whom,  as 
a  Master  of  Arts  of  the  University  of  Paris,  he  might 
once  have  been  counted  the  equal. 

The  next  hundred  years  produced  no  real  poet  in 
the  sense  of  creator,  though  there  were  a  great  number 
of  skilled  adapters  and  translators,  and  in  that  field 
of  satirical,  didactic,  allegoric,  and  dramatic  poetry 
which  lies  outside  our  present  scope,  there  were  writers 
of  solid  worth.  Deriving  a  great  deal  from  all  of  these, 
Clement  Marot,  (1495- 1544),  exhibited  his  nimble 
talent  in  verses  of  nearly  every  kind,  the  best  being, 
perhaps,  the  witty  dialogues  and  epigrams  full  of  fine 
malice  and  a  lively  dramatic  sense.  The  learned 
Mellin  de  Saint-Gelais,  (1487-1558),  himself  the  son  of 
a  very  learned  rhyming  bishop,  was  a  writer  of  occa- 
sional verse,  and  won  fame  rather  from  the  importance 
of  the  people  to  whom  it  was  addressed  than  from  its 
intrinsic  worth.  But  he  grafted  the  Italian  sonnet  on 
to  the  stem  of  French  literature,  and  in  this  form  were 
written  the  greater  number  of  the  pieces  produced  by 
his  immediate  successors,  who,  headed  by  Pierre  de 


14  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Ronsard,  (1524-1585),  produced  some  of  the  supremest 
lyrical  poetry  of  which  France  can  boast,  all  athrob 
with  the  triumphant  ardour  of  the  Renaissance  spirit, 
which  found  a  new  heaven  on  earth,  and  another  never- 
failing  in  the  life  of  antiquity.  With  a  small  band  of 
fellow  songsmiths  calling  themselves  the  "  Pleiade," 
he  launched  his  poetical  manifesto  "  La  Defense  et 
Illustration  de  la  Langue  Fran9aise,"  in  1549,  bearing 
the  signature  of  Joachim  du  Bellay,  (1525- 1560),  who, 
next  to  himself,  was  easily  the  most  important  poet 
of  the  group.  This  so-called  ' '  Defense  ' '  boldly  took 
the  offensive,  inveighed  against  the  mechanical  forms 
of  the  ballade  and  the  rondeau,  and  urged  writers  to 
the  study  of  Greek  and  Latin  both  for  the  finding  of 
their  subjects  and  the  enrichment  of  their  vocabulary, 
while  counselling  the  abandonment  of  mere  transla- 
tion. While  it  must  be  granted  that,  in  spite  of  his 
too  plethoric  output  and  a  classicism  both  of  subject 
and  vocabulary  at  times  but  ill-digested,  Ronsard  was 
a  supremely  perfect  singer,  he  can  hardly  be  acclaimed 
as  of  that  small  clan  of  great  poets  whose  minds  are 
as  great  as  their  music,  so  that  their  words  lodge 
deeply  in  us  when  the  music  of  them  has  gone  by. 
His  main  theme,  paraphrased  by  Herrick  in  "  Gather 
ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may,"  recurring  incessantly 
with  a  sameness  of  physical  imagery,  finishes  by 
suggesting  the  enervation  of  mere  bodily  sickness. 
It  is  true  that  the  idea  is  expressed  with  such  perfect 
tenderness  of  suggestion  in  one  or  two  pieces  that 
these  must  be  read  as  long  as  French  is  known.  He 
has  also  an  astonishing  vigour  in  giving  a  living 
intensity  to  subjects  apparently  trite,  as  in  the  sonnet 
in  which  he  proposes  to  read  Homer  in  three  days,  or 
in  that  other,  (triumphantly  rendered  with  so  many 
more  by  the  late  George  Wyndham),  which  closes  with 


INTRODUCTION  15 

two  lines  admirably  illustrating  his  masterly  ease  in 
flashing  a  sudden  glamour  on  the  vision — 

As  lightning  leaps  a  moment  and  is  lost, 
Or  as  a  cloud  wanes  out  upon  the  wind. 

There  is  in  him,  too,  an  extraordinary  sense  of  physical 
delight  in  natural  phenomena,  such  as  is  only  granted 
to  the  incorruptible  innocence  of  vision  enjoyed  by 
those  great  artists  in  whom  the  springs  of  childish 
wonder  are  never  quenched. 

Du  Bellay,  like  his  friend,  was  a  man  of  high  lineage, 
and  accompanied  his  cousin  the  Cardinal  on  a  mission 
to  Rome.  Thence  came  the  series  of  impressive 
sonnets,  some  of  which  were  translated  with  amazing 
fidelity  by  his  great  contemporary  Edmund  Spenser, 
and  with  such  perfect  propriety  of  contemporary  idiom 
as  no  modern  writer  can  hope  to  come  near.  Du 
Bellay  died  at  thirty-five  and  left  far  less  than  Ronsard, 
but  he  wrote  little  that  is  not  exceedingly  fine  in  that 
word's  more  primitive  meaning  ;  he  is  easily  the  most 
spiritual  of  the  Pl^iade,  and  touched  the  stops  of 
more  various  quills  than  any  of  his  fellows.  Sonnets 
of  love,  of  austere  meditation,  of  religious  musing,  and 
of  sharpest  satire  all  came  from  his  pen.  If  we  never 
get  with  him  the  hint  of  coarseness  which  the  more 
amorous  Ronsard  but  thinly  veils,  we  also  find  no 
hint  of  that  robust  delight  in  mere  physical  well- 
being  which  can  so  transfigure  the  material  world. 

With  Philippe  Desportes,  (1545-1606),  who  after 
Ronsard 's  passing  took  first  rank  as  arbiter  of  poetic 
taste,  we  find  already  strong  signs  of  the  head  getting 
the  better  of  the  heart,  of  emotion  being  ousted  by 
wit.  The  complete  iconoclast  arrived  in  Malherbe, 
(1555-1628),  who,  notwithstanding  that  his  best  lines 
owe  everything  to  that  very  style  of  which  Ronsard 


16  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

had  been  the  sire,  declared  truceless  war  on  the 
**  P16iade  "  and  all  its  works,  and  insisted  on  verse  as 
regular  in  construction  and  as  undeviating  in  sequence 
of  idea  as  a  proposition  of  Euclid.  He  and  his  fol- 
lowers doubtlessly  produced  fine  literature  of  their 
own  kind,  but  it  is  almost  wholly  without  the  lyric 
quality,  unless  the  stateliness  of  ceremonial  pomp  be 
deemed  synonymous  with  it.  The  luxurious  woods 
and  fields  of  Ronsard  were  all  pruned  to  the  semblance 
of  a  trim  parterre,  and  set  with  marble  nymphs  that 
never  felt  the  flutter  of  a  human  pulse.  The  wanton 
heed  and  giddy  cunning  of  the  lyric  poet  became  the 
splendidly  null  perfection  of  the  performer  by  rote. 

Corneille,  (1606-1684),  and  Racine,  (1639-1699), 
Boileau,  (1636-1711),  and  Voltaire,  (1694-1778),  are 
all  great  names  in  the  history  of  French  verse,  and 
at  least  the  two  first-named  rank  as  supremely  fine 
artists  in  their  own  domain  of  abstract  sentiment 
divorced  from  human  personality.  Their  poetry  is 
the  flower  of  a  social  order  by  which  its  expression 
was  very  strictly  constrained  within  limits  forbidding 
the  incoherence  and  forthrightness,  (and  therefore  the 
verisimilitude),  of  overmastering  passion.  It  is  the 
literature  of  an  aristocratic  reserve  that  is  horrified 
by  anything  suggestive  of  a  *'  mauvais  ton,"  and, 
despite  the  strength  of  several  subsequent  revolutions, 
many  are  the  Frenchmen  whose  taste  is  still  bound  by 
its  tenets.  This  is  curiously  illustrated  by  the  sure 
signs  of  their  present-day  idolaters,  for  whom  they 
stand  as  symbols  of  the  old  tradition  which  they  love, 
while  the  iconoclasts  regard  them  as  the  discredited 
oracles  of  a  creed  outworn.  But  the  strictness,  (not 
to  say  narrowness),  of  thought,  and  consequently  of 
its  literary  garb,  which  culminated  in  Voltaire,  while 
inducing  the  nimbleness  and  circumspection  proper 


INTRODUCTION  17 

to  a  tight-rope  walker,  allowed  the  poet  to  move  only 
within  as  narrow  a  compass  and  with  as  unnatural 
a  gait.  The  wine  of  Ronsard's  undeniably  heady 
vintage  grew  steadily  drier  until  it  became  literally 
the  vin-aigre  of  the  cynical  Voltaire.  La  Fontaine, 
(1621-1695),  alone  knew  how  to  move  easily  and  with 
natural  grace  among  the  sublime  commonplaces  that 
become  intolerable  unless  presented  to  us  insinuatingly 
and  with  graphic  sureness  ;  but  nothing  really  gives 
us  any  savour  of  the  eartn-sprung  grape  until  we  come 
to  Andr6  Ch^nier,  (1762-1794),  who,  born  at  Constan- 
tinople of  a  Greek  mother,  reclothed  the  antique 
legends  and  idyls  in  his  father's  tongue,  and  died  on 
the  scaffold  ere  his  genius  had  come  to  full  fruition. 
Using  the  old  rhyming  French  alexandrines  exclu- 
sively for  these  classical  subjects,  he  yet  treated  them 
so  freshly  and  gave  them  such  a  flavour  of  sharp 
delight  as  to  make  them  as  real  and  as  vivid  as  last 
night's  flower-haunted  ballroom  or  this  morning's 
foursome  on  the  links. 

With  the  dawn  of  the  nineteenth  century  came  a 
splendour  of  poetical  talent  far  exceeding  all  the 
previous  glories  of  French  literature.  Alphonse  de 
Lamartine,  (1790-1869),  the  first-born  of  the  new 
galaxy  leading  the  romantic  revival  which  derived 
from  Rousseau  and  Chateaubriand,  (and  hardly  less 
from  the  poets  of  our  own  land),  wrote  lines  of  a 
lyric  sweep  and  moral  elevation  unsurpassed  by 
any  of  his  forerunners,  and  but  seldom  equalled  by 
his  followers.  He  never  made  a  mitier  of  poetry, 
which  was  no  more  than  a  by-product  of  his  diplo- 
matic and  political  occupations,  so  that  while  his 
verses  are  full  of  flaws  and  not  exempt  from  the  ready- 
made  images  of  the  old  classical  school,  there  is  little 
that  is  not  suffused  with  vital  feeling — far  more  feeling, 

B 


18  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

indeed,  than  the  subject-matter  seems  sometimes  to 
justify.     Though  he  is  brimful  of 

pure  religion  breathing  household  laws, 

it  is  Byron  rather  than  Wordsworth  who  was  his 
conscious  exemplar  among  the  English  poets,  his 
admiration,  (as  later  with  de  Musset),  leading  him  to 
assume,  with  an  attitude  somewhat  ludicrously  self- 
conscious  and  austere,  the  tinsel-woven  mantle  of  his 
romantic  forerunner.  But  he  sang  nobly  the  alliance 
between  man  and  the  hills  that  overshadow  and  the 
homes  that  shelter  him  ;  he  first  made  articulate  in 
French  poetry,  (what  in  his  own  majestic  way  Chateau- 
briand had  already  done  in  prose),  the  feeling  of  pious 
awe  for  nature  as  the  arena  for  heroic  exploits  or  the 
stern  corrector  of  mean  ones  ;  and  if  he  is  but  little 
read  by  the  present  generation,  it  is  due  to  the  more 
scientific  temper  of  our  time,  which  resents  that 
particular  form  of  vanity  in  which  its  possessor 
imagines  himself  the  chosen  confident  and  mouth- 
piece of  the  Almighty.  Veneration  for  the  foyer,  for 
the  earth  as  God's  footstool,  and  threshold  of  a  life 
eternal  and  beyond  human  vicissitude,  may  sum  up 
the  whole  of  a  really  noble  achievement  that  in  our 
day  is  apt  to  be  obscured  by  our  keener  appetite  for 
what  is  frankly  of  the  earth  or  even  heaven-defying. 
Alfred  de  Vigny,  (1797-1863),  is  somewhat  difficult 
to  place,  for  though  undoubtedly  of  the  Romantic 
movement,  he  was  never  swept  away  by  its  main 
current.  By  its  lofty  austerity  and  contempt  of  cir- 
cumstance his  work  is  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  rather 
lachrymose  parade  of  self-pity  common  to  Lamartine 
and^de  Musset,  and  links  him  to  the  Parnassians, 
whose  work  was  a  counterblast  to  theirs.  English 
influence  counted  for  much  in  his  development.     His 


INTRODUCTION  19 

version  of  "  Othello  "  was  given  at  the  Theatre 
Fran^ais  four  years  after  his  marriage  to  an  English 
wife,  (a  union  which  repeated,  less  happily,  a  like 
experiment  made  by  Lamartine),  and  a  year  earlier 
than  the  historic  production  of  Hugo's  "  Hernani." 
This,  together  with  his  * '  Chatterton  ' '  and  the  mediae- 
valism  of  "  Le  Cor,"  classes  him  with  his  Romantic 
contemporaries  and  shows  that  wistful  regard  for 

old,  unhappy,  far-ofi  things 
And  battles  long  ago, 

which  awoke  with  the  dawn  of  Romanticism,  and 
reminds  us  that  a  Gothic  revival  went  hand-in-hand 
with  it.  On  the  other  hand,  the  curious  mysticism  of 
' '  La  Maison  du  Berger  ' '  and  other  pieces  has  caused 
him  to  be  claimed  as  an  ancestor  of  the  Symbolists. 

Victor  Hugo,  (1802-1885),  son  of  a  general  of  the 
first  empire,  despite  his  lack  of  humour,  his  vanity 
and  his  verbosity,  is  the  greatest  poet  that  France  has 
produced,  whether  for  depth  and  variety  of  utterance 
or  for  mastery  of  expression.  If  he  failed  as  novelist 
and  dramatist  through  his  cardinal  lack  of  detach- 
ment and  restraint,  he  won  his  right  to  a  place  among 
the  few  supreme  singers  of  the  world  by  his  work  as 
a  lyric,  and  especially  as  an  epic  poet.  As  the  former 
but  few  French  poets  can  equal  him  in  any  given  kind, 
while  none  can  approach  his  variety  either  in  subject 
or  in  amazing  polyphony  of  orchestration,  though  it 
must  be  admitted  that  in  some  of  the  finer  shades  of 
sensibility,  (or,  more  truly,  perhaps,  of  tact  in  treating 
of  them),  he  is  wanting,  and  sometimes  blows  his  own 
trumpet  so  hard  as  to  produce  a  cracked  blast.  As 
an  epic  poet  dealing  with  historical  events  still  rife 
in  his  own  land  and  time,  no  one  can  approach  him 
either  in  his  own  tongue  or  in  ours,  unless  we  name 


20  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

one  who,  dealing  with  remoter  happenings,  did  in 
dramatic  what  Hugo  did  in  narrative  poetry,  and  set 
him  beside  that  Shakespeare  who  shone  for  him  as  a 
beacon  in  the  earlier  years  of  the  Romantic  revolt 
which  he  led.  Producing  throughout  the  whole 
period  of  a  long  life  like  a  river  in  spate,  his  faults  are 
those  of  superabundance  and  never  of  stinting.  With 
his  agility  of  thought  and  of  language,  (the  second 
too  often  and  too  obviously  conditioning  the  first),  he 
will  dazzle  with  a  dozen  swift  images  where  a  single 
one  had  helped  to  clearer  vision.  Not  till  the  burden 
of  grief  or  of  wrath  lay  heavily  on  him  did  he  com- 
pletely cast  off  the  shackles  of  his  rhetoric  to  give  the 
world  the  heart-cry  that  sounds  in  his  dirge  for  his 
dead  daughter,  or  in  his  righteous  onslaught  against 
the  usurping  Napoleon  III,  whose  coming  drove  him 
into  exile  for  twenty  years.  His  superb  ' '  Expiation, ' ' 
with  its  astoundingly  graphic  description  of  the  retreat 
from  Moscow  and  the  rout  of  Waterloo,  in  a  rhyming 
alexandrine  of  such  masterly  *  rhythm  and  balance  as 
to  make  it  seem  like  a  new  measure  after  four  cen- 
turies of  hard  usage,  is  sufficient  to  set  him  among  the 
great  epic  poets  of  all  time.  Not  merely  does  he 
flash  on  the  mind's  eye  such  pictures  as 

Les  blesses  s'abritaient  dans  le  ventre 
Des  chevaux  morts  ;  au  seuil  des  bivouacs  desol6s 
On  voyait  des  clairons  k  leur  poste  geles, 
Rest^s  debout,  en  selle  et  muets,  blancs  de  givre, 
Collant  leur  bouche  en  pierre  aux  trompettes  de  cuivre, 

but  the  mental  agony  is  seized  and  set  down  with  equal 
intensity, 

Et,  chacun  se  sentant  mourir,  on  €tait  seul. 

It  is  as  though  he  were  so  saturated  with  his  subject 
that  the  direct  expression  of  what  he  felt  were  enough 


INTRODUCTION  21 

to  ensure  truth  to  the  psychology  of  it.  Those  four 
lines  beginning  //  neigeait  within  the  first  twenty, 
and  the  quiet,  laconic,  almost  ironic  couplet  with 
which  each  section  concludes,  have  the  exalted 
restraint  and  clarity  of  supreme  art,  and  strike  on 
the  imagination  with  all  the  force  of  concentred  and 
calculated  blows.  It  may  be  that  the  historical  per- 
spective is  wrong,  but  posterity  is  apt  to  be  indifferent 
to  such  considerations  in  view  of  the  sublimity  of  the 
poetical  vista. 

What  he  had  done  for  an  age  in  * '  Les  Chatiments  ' ' 
he  achieved  for  the  history  of  mankind  in  "La 
L^gende  des  Si^cles."  Unquenchable  compassion  for 
all  human  suffering  and  misdoing,  with  unquestioning 
faith  in  man's  high  destiny,  throbs  throughout  every- 
thing he  wrote  ;  but  he  wrote  so  much,  under  such 
immediate  pressure  of  events,  and  with  such  simple 
belief  in  his  prophetic  infallibility,  that  we  may  be 
forgiven  for  applying  to  so  voluble  a  singer  the  words 
of  Omar,  and  asking  if  he  was  always  sober  when  he 
swore.  But  the  epic  Hugo  lies  without  the  scope  of 
this  volume,  if,  indeed,  not  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
translator's  art,  and  I  can  do  no  more  than  offer  a 
mingled  posy  of  his  lighter  blooms. 

Gerard  de  Nerval,  (1808-1855),  who  rendered 
**  Faust  "  into  French  very  finely,  represents  the 
Germanic  influence  in  the  Romantic  movement  of 
which  his  own  life  was  by  way  of  a  parody,  though  far 
from  being  so  meant.  A  mystic  by  temperament,  he 
fell  on  mental  disorder  and  committed  suicide,  but 
not  before  he  had  coloured  the  stream  of  French 
poetry  with  a  strange  and  magical  infusion  with  which 
the  work  of  the  later  Symbolists  was  to  blend. 

Alfred  de  Musset,  (1810-1857),  started  by  following 
in   the  footsteps  of  the  early  and  more  narrowly 


22  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

romantic  Hugo,  and  later,  less  happily,  by  playing  at 

being 

Byron,  dans  sa  tristesse  altiere. 

Voluptuous,  witty,  an  incurable  * '  gamin  ' '  who  had 
played  with  fire  and  forbidden  fruit  from  adolescence, 
at  twenty-three  he  fell  in  with  George  Sand,  six  years 
his  senior,  escaped  from  the  marriage  yoke  and 
already  a  known  flouter  of  convention  by  free  unions 
with  lovers  of  her  choice.  Together  they  set  out  for 
Italy,  where  continual  quarrels,  Musset's  illness,  and 
George  Sand's  infidelity  with  a  new-found  lover  in  the 
doctor  who  attended  him,  culminated  in  rupture,  the 
young  poet  returning  to  Paris  unaccompanied.  This 
crisis  in  his  life  provides  the  background  to  all  that 
he  subsequently  wrote,  and  its  exploitation  roused  the 
scorn  of  Leconte  de  Lisle,  (1818-1894),  and  the  Parnas- 
sians, who  held  with  him  that  poetry  should  treat  of 
abstract  beauty  and  rise  above  the  stress  of  private 
sorrows  and  their  lamentation.  As  the  triumphs  and 
failures  of  Hugo  are  largely  incident  to  his  position 

au  centre  de  tout  comme  un  6cho  sonore, 

so  the  attitude  of  Leconte  de  Lisle  bespeaks  supreme 
isolation  from  the  turmoil  of  humanity,  and  a  horror 
of  that  quality  of  emotion  which  is  facile  to  grovel 
or  exult,  and  is  quite  foreign  to  any  feeling  of  shame 
in  its  self-exposure.  In  this  he  begets  the  great  awe 
and  little  love  that  is  given  to  our  own  aloof  Milton, 
whom  also  he  resembles  in  the  elaboration  of  his 
descriptive  passages,  in  his  vast  array  of  classical  and 
far-sought  illustration,  and  in  a  certain  monotony  of 
ponderous  diction,  though,  like  the  great  Puritan,  he 
can  on  occasion  surprise  us  by  a  shy  sally  of  lyrical 
song.     It  is  unfortunate  that  he  never  condescends 


INTRODUCTION  28 

to  a  footnote  or  the  simplification  of  his  classical  or 
exotic  terminology  ;  for  a  vast  deal  of  his  work 
assumes  in  the  reader  a  knowledge  of  the  world's 
sagas  from  Iceland  to  Ceylon,  and  a  close  acquain- 
tance with  the  strange  flora  and  fauna  of  the  tropic 
zones  to  which  the  poet  was  himself  native  and  sunid 
which  he  delighted  to  move.  He  strove  to  see  all  life 
as  an  imposing  spectacle,  himself  standing  aloof  ;  but 
the  very  deliberation  of  this  attitude  renders  intenser 
the  emotion  conveyed  in  certain  poems  which  betray 
his  discovery  of  himself  as  an  agonist  in  the  human 
drama  he  had  affected  to  ignore.  Beside  him,  though 
by  chronology  and  early  associations  he  was  allied 
for  a  while  to  the  Romantics,  we  must  set  Theophile 
Gautier,  (1811-1872),  who,  beginning  life  as  a  painter, 
has  the  keen  eye  for  the  form  and  colour  of  material 
things  which  distinguishes  the  school.  They  regarded 
rhyme  with  reverence  as  both  spur  and  bridle  to 
Pegasus,  and  the  stricter  the  bonds  the  more  they 
rejoiced  in  them.  So  we  find  with,  them,  as  with 
de  Banville,  (1823-1891),  and  Heredia,  (1842-1905), 
continual  cultivation  of  such  forms  as  the  sonnet, 
"  terza  rima,"  and  ballade.  They  are  united,  too,  in 
their  devotion  to  antiquity  and  their  hatred  of  the 
Middle  Ages  and  the  religion  identified  with  the 
mortification  of  the  sinful  flesh,  which  they  preferred 
to  regard  as  in  itself  godly.  Leconte  de  Lisle  stands 
for  a  more  deliberate  reaction  against  the  extrava- 
gancies of  Hugo,  against  his  anthropomorphism  that 
saw  God's  steely  glance  in  every  sunbeam  and  setting 
a  snare  about  men's  feet  for  ever  stumbling  between 
purgatory  and  paradise  ;  he  expresses  the  revolt  of  a 
pessimist  who  had  little  faith  in  man  and  none  in 
Providence,  whose  highest  aim  was  to  endure  nobly 
and  without  complaining  till  welcome  death  should 


24  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

make  him  one  with  the  glorious  but  insensible  world 
in  which  he  dwelt  as  in  exile  or  in  expiation.  The 
practice  of  the  school  seldom  fell  below  its  Spartan 
precepts,  and  if  Hugo  has  full  need  of  that  indulgent 
law  whereby  posterity  agrees  to  remember  only  what 
is  deathless  in  a  writer's  output,  these  four  may  almost 
be  allowed  to  forgo  its  benefits.  The  fastidious  art 
of  Gautier  is  the  product  of  a  pleasure-loving  mind  of 
meridional  temper  that,  robust  of  appetite  for  the 
good  things  and  the  smooth  things,  and  the  elegant 
trifles  and  amenities  of  human  life,  was  yet  the  more 
aghast  at  the  thought  of  the  *'  abhorred  shears  "  ; 
and,  shrinking  from  present  realities,  (other  than 
plastic  ones),  sought  what  a  modern  critic  has  well 
called  **  an  escape  from  life  "  in  the  contemplation 
and  practice  of  his  art.  So,  perfect  craftsman  though 
he  is,  he  cannot  be  admitted  to  supreme  rank.  But 
his  peculiar  quality  of  visual  exactitude,  (especially  in 
landscape),  served  to  strengthen  the  predilection  of 
the  Parnassians  who  followed  him  ;  his  feeling  for 
delicate  detail  was  like  a  spring  rain  to  the  seed  of 
de  Banville's  fancy  ;  and  his  shiver  at  corruption 
passed  into  the  shudders  that,  with  deeper  feeling  and 
sublimer  imagery,  became  articulate  in  Baudelaire. 
De  Banville  is  the  will-o'-the-wisp  of  French  poetry; 
he  links  the  lightest  of  fancies  and  the  slightest  of 
emotions  into  a  gossamer  of  rhyme  ;  his  thought  is 
as  flimsy  as  may  be,  and  his  emotion  a  light  wanton 
obedient  to  the  beck  and  call  of  his  line  endings  ;  but 
his  winsome  grace  and  freshness  make  such  considera- 
tions appear  wholly  insidious  and  irrelevant  while  we 
are  under  the  spell  of  their  delightful  artifice. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  any  single  poet  has  ever 
reached  such  high  rank  as  Heredia  with  so  small  a 
volume  of  work.     His  emotion  is  mainly  that  of  a 


INTRODUCTION  25 

connoisseur — a  calm  intensity  of  detached  delight  in 
no  way  involving  the  heart's  surrender — and  it  is 
expressed  in  pondered  artistry  of  the  most  exquisite 
kind.  He  will  give  you  a  whole  civilization  in  a 
sonnet,  but  only  because  he  has  first  become  steeped 
in  the  sentiment  of  its  era,  especially  as  shown  by  its 
visual  embodiment  in  forms  of  material  pomp  and 
magnificence.  As  Hugo  in  '  *  La  L6gende  des  Siecles  ' ' 
had  given  us  a  series  of  historical  pictures  from  the 
dawn  of  Time  down  to  the  era  of  the  great  Napoleon, 
so  Leconte  de  Lisle,  seeking  more  exotic  themes,  and 
without  Hugo's  preoccupation  with  what  the  younger 
poet  would  have  termed  "  sham  and  sensuous  reli- 
giosity," gave  us  a  series  of  heroic  frescoes  drawn  in 
hard,  stupendous  outline  by  an  artist  almost  inhumanly 
impassive,  who  sat 

as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed 
But  contemplating  all, 

and  recording  phenomena  with  Olympian  detachment 
and  completeness.  It  is  Heredia's  glory  to  have  filled 
in  these  outlines  with  the  richest  of  colouring  and 
the  most  elaborate  ornamentation,  for  of  Leconte 
de  Lisle 's  cardinal  part  he  is  but  the  development  and 
culmination,  gathering  in  intensity  and  concentration 
what  he  loses  in  range  and  scope.  There  is  hardly  a 
flaw  in  any  of  the  hundred  and  eighteen  sonnets 
which,  (with  two  longer  but  less  important  narrative 
pieces),  fill  his  only  volume.  Each  sonnet  presents  a 
complete  picture  to  which  every  word  adds  a  touch 
of  colour,  and  if,  after  persistent  reading,  the  manner 
of  its  making  becomes  a  little  obvious,  and  the 
manoeuvring  preliminary  to  the  triumphant  rally  of 
his  fourteenth  line  ceases  to  impose  upon  the  reader, 
that  is  perhaps  no  more  than  an  inherent  defect  of  the 


26  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

restricted  medium  in  which  he  chose  to  write.  Noon 
on  the  Nile  two  thousand  years  ago,  Siesta  in  the 
tropic  sunlight,  Hannibal  musing  after  victory,  the 
Samurai  full-armed  for  battle,  are  seen  and  set  down 
with  such  intense  clarity  and  completeness  that  each 
sonnet  might  be  termed  an  alembic  holding  in  little 
all  the  essentials  of  an  epoch.  His  work  sometimes 
suffers  from  a  too  aboriginal  delight  in  mere  gauds 
and  the  unattainably  expensive,  (just  as  a  thousand 
visitors  to  the  Tower  will  stand  agape  over  the  Crown 
jewels  for  one  who  will  examine  the  graving  of  human 
sorrow  on  its  walls)  ;  so  that  one  sonnet  will  sound 
like  a  rhymed  inventory  of  some  antique  looter  for 
whom  no  item  is  a  token  of  noble  living  now  made 
dust,  while  another  will  paint  the  lily  and  gild  the 
gold  of  sunrise  at  Constantinople  with  such  extrava- 
gance of  hue  that  the  result  is  at  once  magnificent 
and  preposterous.  From  this  failing  his  master's 
abiding  sense  of  futility  restrained  him. 

Allied  to  these  by  a  scrupulous  devotion  to  form 
was  Charles  Baudelaire,  (1821-1867),  whose  aesthetic 
sensibility  went  along  with  a  curious  spirit  of  analysis 
which  he  shared  with  Edgar  Alan  Poe,  whose  tales 
he  translated.  He  was  fond  of  experimenting  in  the 
morbid,  and  in  the  end  fell  a  victim  to  his  appetite 
for  sensation,  his  death  being  a  happy  release  from 
the  mental  paralysis  which  had  overwhelmed  him. 
Like  Poe,  he  saw  the  skeleton  at  every  feast  with  a 
vision  unthwarted  by  the  beauty  that  enthralled  him — 
a  beauty  whose  flame  consumes  the  soul  that  it 
illumines,  making  victims  of  its  adorers.  The  two 
were  akin  again  in  their  fondness  for  recurrent  lines, 
like  the  restless  haunting  of  accusing  voices,  though 
it  is  true  that  this  may  have  been  suggested  to  Baude- 
laire by  the  Malay  ' '  pantoum, ' '  a  form  to  which 


INTRODUCTION  27 

Leconte  de  Lisle  also  subdued  his  lofty  mind.  As  the 
creator  of  mental  images  through  the  medium  of  the 
most  superfine  nervous  sensations,  he  is  one  of  the 
most  direct  forerunners  of  the  Symbolists.  Though 
nervous  sensibility  wrought  havoc  on  his  fleshly  part, 
his  spiritual  gaze  never  lost  sight  of  the  reality  that 
lies  behind  appearances  ;  and  if  he  was  the  conscious 
slave  to  them,  the  real  man,  (in  spite  of  a  blatant 
dissembling),  was  a  rebel  to  the  bondage,  and  could 
not  wholly  stifle  the  cry  that  sounds  ever  and  anon 
like  Faust's  in  bitter  anguish  for  his  bartered  heaven. 
Born  of  a  sire  already  turned  three-score,  the  pride 
of  the  flesh  and  the  delight  of  the  eye  tortured  him 
with  a  wild  appetite  for  conquests  that  were  beyond 
the  enjoyment  of  his  impoverished  blood  :  hence 
came  the  superb  allure  and  strange  nostalgia  of 
forbidden  fruit  that  haunt  his  verses  ;  hence  too  in 
bitter  spite,  perhaps  spurred  on  by  the  inarticulate 
presentiment  of  an  early  exhaustion,  came  the  joyless 
quest  of  emotional  excesses  that  led  only  to  satiety. 

To  the  Parnassian  school  belongs  also  Sully  Prud- 
homme,  (i  839-1907),  by  his  adherence  to  strict  form, 
though  we  must  agree  with  Leconte  de  Lisle  that  he 
is  not  quite  "  de  la  maison,"  owing  to  his  exploitation 
of  those  intimate  heart-searchings  which  his  great 
chief  regarded  with  so  much  disfavour.  One  of  the 
most  typical  poets  of  his  time,  without  any  marked 
endowment  of  lyrical  power,  but  with  extreme  sensi- 
bility and  perfect  craft  and  delicacy  of  self-analysis, 
he  was  able  to  express  with  touching  sincerity  the 
ordeal  of  a  soul  despairing  of  guidance  in  a  world 
which  had  lost  its  power  of  trusting  the  old  sanctions 
and  prohibitions  in  which  present  happiness  and 
eternal  salvation  were  once  to  be  found.  Endowed 
with   all    the  facility  and   adaptability  which  Sully 


28  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Prudhomme  lacked,  Catulle  Mendes,  (i  842-1 909), 
might  have  often  achieved  greatness  had  he  shown 
the  strength  and  stubbornness  proper  to  an  original 
mind  that  beats  out  its  own  music  without  stooping 
to  mimic  its  betters.  His  house  was,  towards  1866, 
a  rallying-point  for  all  those  who  marched  under  the 
Parnassian  banner  ;  he  married  a  daughter  of 
Gautier,  and  shared  the  faith  which  he  continued  to 
profess,  (if  not  always  to  practise),  even  down  to  1900, 
when  he  wrote  : 

Car  il  n'est  poeme  au  parfait  aloi 
Qui  ne  soit  la  fleur  d'une  stricte  loi, 

Car  meme  le  vol  infini  de  I'aigle 

Suit  ci  travers  cieux  I'orbe  d'une  rfegle. 

Paul  Verlaine,  (1844-1896),  began  as  a  Parnassian, 
but  was  afterwards  regarded  as  the  leader  of  the 
Symbolist  school  that  aimed  at  the  greatest  freedom 
as  regards  prosody  and  pretended  to  set  down 
nothing  as  a  mere  fact  but  everything  as  a  symbol  of 
something  beyond  itself.  Absolute  surrender  to  the 
vagrom  mood  without  the  sophistication  of  any  con- 
scious moral  or  intellectual  purpose  beyond  its  sincere 
and  melodious  expression  was  the  whole  of  his  gospel  ; 
and  to  him  the  symbolism  was  really  no  more  than 
incidental  and  implied,  phenomena  taking  on  what- 
ever character  the  momentary  emotion  of  the  singer 
imputed  to  them.  It  fitted  the  man  who  was  impul- 
sive as  a  child,  and  subject  to  sensuous  impressions 
and  suggestions,  to  sudden  passions,  devotions,  angers 
and  sorrows,  celestial  and  of  the  slime,  which  the 
normal  man  outgrows.     Baudelaire's 

Je  haie  le  mouvement  qui  d6place  les  lignes 

did  not  allow  that  unquestioning  compliance  with  the 
stress  and  urgency  of  feeling  which  Verlaine  demanded 


INTRODUCTION  29 

of  the  Muse.  His  was  a  more  comfortable  doctrine 
for  those  who  would  shirk  the 

austires  etudes 

on  which  the  elder  poet  insisted  ;  but  its  right  applica- 
tion required  a  fineness  of  sensory  perception  and  a 
responsiveness  thereto  which  can  hardly  survive 
childhood,  together  with  enough  intelligence  to  render 
it  significant,  and  a  wealth  of  metrical  invention  beyond 
all  reckoning.  Child  as  he  was,  and  musical  as  a 
reed,  even  Verlaine  but  seldom  fulfilled  all  these 
conditions  ;  nor  did  he  ever  practise  such  metrical 
freedom  as  the  theory  seems  to  predicate.  His  work 
is  remarkable  for  its  naive  candour  of  close  confidence, 
which  makes  every  poem  a  bulletin  of  the  sick  soul 
as  surely  as  the  medical  chart  above  a  sick  man's 
pillow  serves  to  that  end  for  his  ailing  body.  Only 
his  grace  and  sincerity  save  him  from  being  intolerably 
maudlin,  and  make  his  appeal  as  difficult  to  resist  as 
the  babble  of  a  repentant  child. 

The  poetry  of  moods  and  sensations,  the  creation 
of  atmosphere  without  any  care  for  coherence,  was 
the  too  consciously  cultivated  purpose  of  the  Symbo- 
list Stephane  Mallarm6,  (1842-1898),  most  of  whose 
writings  mean  nothing  at  all  or  suggest  everything, 
according  as  you  read  them  or  into  them — whatever 
you  will.  Here  it  is  not  the  emotion  that  dominates 
the  fancy  and  creates  it  ;  but  to  the  wanderings  of 
rudderless  fancy  you  must  fit  whatever  emotions 
seem  best  to  give  purpose  to  their  erratic  course.  It 
is  somewhat  like  watching  the  gestures  of  a  man 
through  a  pane  of  frosted  glass  without  knowing  the 
room  that  is  behind  it  nor  the  occupation  of  its  tenant, 
and  trying  to  guess  what  is  the  matter  that  holds  him 
there  and  the  purpose  of  his  movements.     In  form 


30  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Mallarme  is  Parnassian  ;  but  he  so  clouded  the  Pierian 
spring  before  sipping  from  it  that  it  is  difficult  for  any 
but  a  neophyte  not  to  find  in  his  work  an  elaborate 
form  of  blague,  not  the  less  mischievous  for  the  fact 
that  he  was  himself  the  dupe  of  it.  His  sin  as  a 
poet,  (for  his  earlier  work  shows  that  he  was  capable 
of  true  ecstasy),  consists  of  an  intellectual  pride  that 
made  him  disdain  surrender  to  impulse  and  prefer 
the  analysis  of  it  ;  he  never  gives  us  his  emotion  in 
the  full  ardour  of  fusion  but  only  in  a  dead  precipitate. 
And  the  matter  is  complicated  by  his  scholarship  and 
a  consequent  adoption  of  an  alien  syntax,  so  that  he 
came  to  write  in  a  sort  of  cipher  of  which  himself 
alone  held  the  key.  As  a  protest  both  against  the 
excessive  ritual  and  visual  exactitude  of  the  Parnas- 
sians and  the  loudness  and  over-emphasis  of  Hugo, 
this  literature  of  hints  and  half-tones  seeing  every- 
thing, as  Amiel  saw  landscape,  as  an  "  etat  d'ame," 
and  surrendering  completely  to  the  suggestions  imposed 
by  it,  had  a  valuable  influence,  though  it  was  too 
often  weakened  by  followers  who  sought  the  cover 
of  its  haze  for  their  own  incompetence.  The  move- 
ment was  finally  dissipated  in  a  superstitious  type  of 
mock-simple  animism  not  far  removed  from  silliness. 
The  fact  that  the  two  most  complete  Parnassians  were 
Creoles  while  Symbolism  found  its  aptest  exponents 
among  northern  men,  and  especially  among  the 
Belgians,  is  not  without  significance  as  suggesting  in 
climate  a  source  of  the  aesthetic  manifestation  natural 
to  the  hard  glitter  and  sharp  outline  of  tropic  countries 
and  the  mistiness  and  changeability  of  chilly  ones. 
And  it  is  worth  noticing  that  Symbolism  synchronized 
with  the  rise  of  Impressionism  in  French  painting, 
and,  like  its  sister  art,  derived  largely,  if  indirectly, 
from  English  sources. 


INTRODUCTION  81 

From  the  Symbolists  or  the  Parnassians,  not  seldom 
from  both — starting  with  the  mutinous  vanguard  and 
falling  later  into  the  ranks  of  the  old  tradition — most 
of  the  more  recent  poets  derive,  though  among  the 
more  interesting  are  those  who  are  most  restive  under 
the  old  yoke  and  strike  out  a  new  furrow  through 
clay  that  has  been  long  neglected,  getting  into  closer 
touch  with  the  commoner  hopes  and  sentiments  of 
workaday  men  by  affecting  the  simplicity  of  a  time 
when  printing  was  still  unlearnt  and  the  folk-song 
still  unforgotten,  before  the  pause  and  stress  derived 
from  a  musical  notation  had  been  ousted  by  the  more 
stately  monotony  of  declamatory  verse.  Along  with 
this  has  gone  a  flouting  of  Academic  ordinance  by 
making  the  ear  the  final  arbiter  both  of  rhythm  and 
of  rhyme,  and  ignoring  the  merely  visual  signs  of 
these  in  the  printed  word  where  they  are  no  longer 
confirmed  by  the  tongue's  delivery  as  heard  in 
familiar  speech. 

London,  April  2917 


BOOK  I 


A 
MONSIEUR  LE  DOYEN 

A 

MESSIEURS  LES  PROFESSEURS 

DE  LA  FACULTE  DES  LETTRES 

DE  L'UNIVERSITE  DE 

GRENOBLE 

EN  HOMMAGE  RECONNAISSANT 


ANONYMOUS 

(i2th  Century) 

I.     THE  TWA  SYSTRES 

THE  mirk  did  fa'  lang  syne,  lang  syne 
When  twa  fond  systres  wi'  hands  that  twine 
Went  doun  to  bathe  whaur  the  waters  shine. 
Blaw  wind,  bend  beugh  in  the  stormy  weather, 
They  that  be  leel  sleep  saft  taegither, 

A  ladde  rode  by  as  the  red  sun  dipt, 
He  saw  her  white  whaur  the  waters  whipt. 
He  tookit  her  straught  in  hys  airms  and  dipt. 
Blaw  wind,  bend  beugh  in  the  stormy  weather. 
They  that  be  leel  sleep  saft  taegither. 

"  Noo  systre  deare,  when  full's  your  skeel 
Gang  hame  by  the  road  that  ye  ken  weel. 
I  bide  wi'  him  that  is  my  ain  leel." 
Blaw  wind,  bend  beugh  in  the  stormy  weather ^ 
They  that  be  leel  sleep  saft  taegither. 

Then  wan  wi'  dule  she  greeted  there 
Wi'  drounded  een  and  hairt  maist  sair 
To  gang  wi'  her  systre  nevermair. 
Blaw  wind,  bend  beugh  in  the  stormy  weather. 
They  that  be  leel  sleep  saft  taegither, 

"  Alas  1   she  cried,  "  wae's  me  !  wae's  me  ! 
She  leaves  me  lain  whaur  the  waters  be 

85 


36  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

To  follow  her  ladde  to  his  ain  countree. ' ' 
Blaiv  wind,  bend  beugh  in  the  stormy  weather, 
They  that  he  leel  sleep  saft  taegither. 

They  turned  them  then  nor  touchit  groun' 
Till  they  rode  into  the  far-off  toun 
And  there  were  blest  wi'  the  priest  abune. 
Blow  wind,  bend  beugh  in  the  stormy  weather. 
They  that  be  leel  sleep  saft  taegither. 


GUIOT  DE  DIJON      • 

(13th  Century) 

2.  THE  LAYE  OF  THE  LADYE  OF  FAEL 

FOR  myne  owne  courage  will  I  synge 

That  I  maye  soothe  and  strengthen  it ; 
For  spite  of  all  my  sufferynge 

I  will  not  die  nor  lose  my  wit, 
Though  from  that  land  of  heathen  shame 

No  home-come  pilgrym  I  doe  meet, 
Where  nowe  he  is  whose  spoken  name 

Doth  make  my  sad  heart  wildly  beat. 

Godde  !  when  the  cry  is  * '  Charge  amayne  I ' ' 
O  guard  the  pilgrym  lest  he  fall 

For  whom  I  suffer  soe  great  payne. 
For  Saracens  are  felons  all. 

Until  the  slowe  yeare  round  shall  swynge, 

I  will  endure  without  assuage. 
0  !   safe  from  peril  Godde  hym  brynge 

Back  from  hys  holie  pilgrymage. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  37 

And,  spite  of  all  my  kindred  saye, 
Myne  owne  true  love  I  will  not  quit 

To  cleave  unto  another  claye  ; 
And  mad  is  he  that  sayeth  it. 

Godde !  when  the  cry  is  ' '  Charge  amayne !  ' ' 

0  guard  the  pilgrym  lest  he  fall 
For  whom  I  suffer  soe  great  payne. 

For  Saracens  are  felons  all. 


JEHANNOT  DE  LESCUREL 

(14th  Century) 

3.     BALLADE 

FAYRE,  in  loyaltie 

I  thee  love;  love  me. 

I  will  serve  thee  aye, 

Never  will  I  straye 

From  thy  companie. 

Love  could  never  flit 

For  he  hath  not  wit 

Howe  to  fynde  a  waye: 

Nowe,  by  Goddes  faye ! 

Ladye,  laye  thy  laughynge  mouth 

On  myne  owne  I  praye. 

Fayre  the  gyft.     I  trowe. 
An  thou  doe  bestowe. 
That  thy  heart  is  myne ; 
Then  shall  I  be  thyne 
More  and  more  alsoe. 


88  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Gentle  ladye  tell 

If  thou  fynde  me  well 

And  sweet  love  have  swaye: 

Nowe,  by  Goddes  faye! 

Ladye,  laye  thy  laughynge  mouth 

On  myne  owne  I  praye. 

Fayre  of  face  art  thou. 

Never  cheek  and  browe 

Could  I  kiss  enough; 

An  I  won  thy  love, 

'Twere  an  end  of  woe. 

Soe  that  I  may  wit 

If  thou  grant  me  it, 

And  thou  wilt  me  paye : 

Nowe,  by  Goddes  faye! 

Ladye,  laye  thy  laughynge  mouth 

On  myne  owne  I  praye. 


JEAN  FROISSART 

(1337-1410) 

4.     RONDEAU  OF  HYS  LADYE 

SOE  blithe  am  I  when  I  a  rose  doe  smell; 

Soe  full  of  bliss  when  I  my  Ladye  see; 

Of  twayne  one  onlye  soothes  the  heart  of  me: 
Soe  blithe  am  I  when  I  a  rose  doe  smell. 
Sweet  is  the  scent;  whereas  her  sighte  doth  quell 

My  heart  soe  that  myne  eyes  ashamed  be: 
Soe  blithe  am  I  when  I  a  rose  doe  smell, 

Soe  full  of  bliss  when  I  my  Ladye  see. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  39 


5.     RONDEAU  OF  FARE-WELL 

My  bodye  goes;  I  leave  wyth  thee  my  heart. 

Ladye  most  deare,  fare-well  till  I  ryde  home. 

Ah !  woe  is  me  that  I  soe  far  must  roam : 
My  bodye  goes;  I  leave  wyth  thee  my  heart. 
But  sweet  remembrances  shall  soothe  the  smarte 

All  the  sad  whyle  till  back  to  thee  I  come : 
My  bodye  goes;  I  leave  wyth  thee  my  heart. 

Ladye  most  deare,  fare-well  till  I  ryde  home. 


EUSTACHE  DESCHAMPS 

(1340-1410) 

6.     BALLADE  OF  PENTECOST 

ON  high  Pentecost  I  found 

In  thys  gracious  month  of  Maye, 

Her  to  whom  my  heart  is  bound 
In  a  garden  faire  a-straye, 
Pluckynge  roses.     I  did  saye 

•'  Kyss  me."    "  Gladlye,"  she  reply 'd. 
In  thys  wise  Love  hadde  hys  waye, 

With  a  rose  on  either  syde. 

Since  her  love  me  comforted 

Doubt  and  fear  are  driven  awaye; 

Now  with  Hope  I  ever  tread 
On  that  garden  of  deare  claye. 
Hence  her  gentle  leave  and  aye 

Fond  desires  that  abyde 


40  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Still  as  sweet  as  when  we  laye 
With  a  rose  on  either  syde. 

Her  sweet  kyss  hath  driven  oute 

More  of  grief  than  I  can  saye ; 
All  my  sorrowe  and  my  doubte 

Now  is  soothed  by  her  swaye. 

I  doe  bless  the  houre  and  daye 
Found  me  thus  soe  faire  a  bryde 

Kissynge  in  soe  kynde  a  waye, 
With  a  rose  on  either  syde. 

Prince,  thys  ladye  on  a  daye 
I  did  fynde  for  mate  and  bryde ; 

There  and  then  I  kyssed  my  faye 
With  a  rose  on  either  syde. 


7.     RONDEAU  OF  SOLDIERHOOD 

SUMMER'S  the  time  for  soldierhood, 
Or  Spryng  when  all  the  grass  is  high 
And  sunbeams  make  old  Winter  fly: 

The  chargers  then  fynde  forage  good, 
And  ground  is  smooth  wheron  to  lie. 

Summer's  the  time  for  soldierhood, 
Or  Spryng  when  all  the  grass  is  high. 

Then  snowe  is  thawn  from  wold  and  wood, 
And  pilgryms  synge  as  they  goe  bye. 
Then  take  thy  speare  with  shield  a-nigh, 

Summer's  the  time  for  soldierhood, 
Or  Spryng  when  all  the  grass  is  high 
And  sunbeams  make  old  Winter  fly. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  41 


CHRISTINE  DE  PISAN 
(1363-1430) 

8.     BALLADE  OF  SPRYNGE-TYME 

NO  WE  Cometh  the  soe  gracious  month  of  Maye 

That  is  ryghte  gladsome,  she  that  doth  bestowe 
Such  sweetnesse ;  nowe  be  fields  and  woods  growne  gaye 

With  leaves  and  floures  that  doe  blithelye  blowe. 
In  all  thynges  joye  hath  swaye. 
Nowe  greene  the  meadowe  is  and  eke  the  spraye, 
And  all  thynges  nowe  forswear  their  sorrowynge 
For  the  faire   boone  this  merrye  month  doth 

brynge. 

The  birds  goe  singynge  a  glad  roundelaye, 

And  all  thynges  the  like  happinesse  doe  knowe; 
But  woe  is  me  that  suffer  such  dismaye, 

For  wanderynge  love  begetteth  onlye  woe ; 
Nowe  me  joye  cannot  swaye, 
Who  growe  in  sorrowe  as  tyme  groweth  gaye. 

Lovers  well  knowe  how  sharper  grief  can  stynge 
For  the   faire  boone  this  merrye  month   doth 

brynge. 

Nowe  doe  I  weep,  lamentynge  nighte  and  daye 

Him  whom  I  lack,  and  who  doth  nought  bestowe ; 
Nowe  Love's  worst  onset  that  comes  nigh  to  slaye. 

His  feints  and  torments  I  doe  sadlye  knowe. 
In  this  sweet  tyme  alwaye 
I  have  noe  joye  who  am  despoiled  aye 

Of  that  desire  wherto  soe  firm  I  clynge 
For  the   faire  boone  this  merrye  month   doth 

brynge. 


42  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


9.     RONDEAU  OF  SECRET  SORROWE 

HOWE  hard  a  thynge  it  is  to  dree 

When  heart  doth  weep  and  mouth  must  synge, 
When  grief  must  hyde  from  companie 
Howe  hard  a  thynge  it  is  to  dree. 
Yet  some  must  mask  their  miserie 

Lest  honour  be  a  smirched  thynge: 
How  hard  a  thynge  it  is  to  dree. 


ANONYMOUS 

(15th  Century) 

10.     FOLK  SONG 

WHAT  shall  I  doe  if  love  me  leave  ? 
Night  and  daye  I  cannot  sleepe. 

For  my  lover  I  doe  grieve 
When  unto  my  bed  I  creepe. 

Then  I  rise  with  bodye  bare 
And  doe  on  my  robe  of  graye; 

Glidynge  down  a  secret  stay  re, 
Thro'  the  grove  I  wend  awaye. 

There  the  merry  larke  doth  synge, 
And  the  nightingale  doth  crye 

In  his  prettye  jargonynge, 

"  See  these  lovers  farynge  bye. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  43 

**  On  the  river  in  a  boat 
Movynge  on  her  stately  waye, 

*  •  With  a  satin  saile  a-float 
And  with  silken  cordes  for  staye. 

' '  The  tall  maste  is  ivorie, 
And  the  rudder  golden  pale; 

' '  From  a  far  awaye  countrie 
Come  the  lads  that  trim  the  saile. 

* '  One  that  bears  the  Fleurs-de-Lys 
Is  the  Kynge  of  France's  sonne, 

' '  And  the  other  lad,  I  wis 
Is  my  owne  beloved  one. '  * 


CHARLES  D 'ORLEANS 

(1391-1465) 

II.     BALLADE 

O  PRAYE  for  peace,  sweet  mayde  Marie 

High  Queene  of  Heaven  and  world's  mistr^sse, 

Make  praye  your  holy  companie 
By  gentle  favour,  and  addresse 
Your  Sonne  that  from  his  loftinesse 

He  maye  his  wayward  people  heede 

For  whom  in  ransom  he  did  bleede, 
Nowe  prone  for  warre  that  wasteth  all ; 

O  praye  and  never  cease  to  plead 

That  peace,  joy's  treasure,  maye  befall. 


44  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Praye  priests  and  who  live  holilie ; 

Sleeke  friars  leave  your  slothfulnesse ; 
Praye  learned  men  lest  warre  should  be 

That  setteth  studie  in  sore  stresse ; 

The  ruined  shrine  you  shall  not  blesse 
Who  there  nor  missal  write  nor  read, 
Nor  followe  where  Lord  Godde  doth  lead. 

Then  loudly  nowe  upon  Hym  call, 
For  soe  ordaineth  church  and  creed) 

That  peace,  joy's  treasure,  maye  befall. 

Praye  Princes  who  hold  landes  in  fee, 

Kynges,  Dukes,  Earls,  all  of  knightly  fesse, 
And  gentlemen  of  chivalrie. 

Lest  churls  o'ercome  your  gentlenesse; 

In  graspynge  hands  your  wealth  growes  lesse, 
From  hot  dispute  and  evil  greede, 
As  you  maye  see.     0  intercede, 

(For  they  growe  proude  and  rich  with  all 
Wherwith  your  people  you  should  feede) 

That  peace,  joy's  treasure,  maye  befall. 

Praye  folk  that  bear  hard  tyrannie, 

For  sore  is  your  lords'  feeblenesse 
Who  cannot  holde  their  masterie 

Nor  help  you  in  your  evil  stresse; 

Praye  merchant  in  sore  paine  noe  lesse, 
Too  long  a-straddle  on  your  steede, 
(For  you  noe  more  afar  maye  speede 

To  barter  in  the  baron's  hall, 
Such  peril  doth  the  highway e  breede) 

That  peace,  joy's  treasure,  maye  befall. 

Lord  Godde  Almightie  doth  us  heede. 
From  Earth,  Sky,  Ocean,  in  our  neede 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  45 

Let  prayer  rise  unto  Him  from  all, 
Who  onlye  can  amend  ill  deede, 

That  peace,  joy's  treasure,  maye  befall. 

12.  RONDEAU 

HOWE  comely  hath  Godde  made  her  be, 

Gracious  and  goode  and  fair  of  moulde 

That  every  man  her  doth  beholde 
Must  prayse  her  soul's  consistencie. 
For  who  could  tire  of  such  as  she 

Whose  lovelinesse  doth  aye  unfolde  ? 
Howe  comely  hath  Godde  made  her  be. 

Gracious  and  goode  and  fair  of  moulde. 
Nor  can  I  fynde  by  lande  or  sea, 

Or  virgin  maid  or  matron  olde 

As  doth  such  perfect  graces  holde ; 
The  thought  of  her  is  dream  to  me : 
Howe  comely  hath  Godde  made  her  be ! 

13.  RONDEAU 

MYNE  only  love,  my  joye,  my  boone, 
More  deare  to  me  than  ought  beside, 
I  prithee  joyously  doe  bide 

In  hope  that  I  maye  see  thee  soone. 

I  seeke  a  waye  by  nighte,  by  noone. 
To  come  to  thee,  if  Godde  me  guide, 

Myne  only  love,  my  joye,  my  boone, 
More  deare  to  me  than  ought  beside. 

And  if,  by  wishynge  it,  my  shoone 

Maye  brynge  me  nigh  thee,  nought  denied 
Of  all  that  under  heav'n  doth  hide, 

Shall  sette  me  cryinge  for  the  moone; 

Myne  only  love,  my  joye,  my  boone. 


46  -  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


14.     BALLADE 

WITHIN  the  forest  of  sad  wearinesse 

One  daye  uncompanied  I  chanced  to  wend, 
And  therin  did  encounter  love's  Goddesse 

Who  made  me  question  of  my  journey's  end. 

To  whom  I  told  howe  Fortune  did  me  rend 
And  drive  awaye  into  the  woodland  close, 

That  not  miscalled  a  man  maye  be,  soe  penned, 
A  man  astraye  that  knowes  not  where  he  goes. 

She,  smilynge  in  her  soe  great  kindlinesse, 

Made  answer  to  me,  "  Did  I  knowe,  deare  friend, 
Wherfor  thou  farest  in  soe  sore  distresse, 

Myne  aid  to  thee  I  willyngly  would  lend; 

Since,  long  agoe  I  did  thy  heart  intend 
For  pleasant  wayes,  whom  malice  misbestowes, 

And  much  it  grieveth  me  to  see  thee  wend, 
A  man  astraye  that  knowes  not  where  he  goes. ' ' 

"Alas!"  said  I,  "O  sovereign  princesse, 
Hear  thou  my  plight  and  hearken  to  the  end : 

'Tis  Death  hath  done  me  this  dire  hurtfulnesse, 
And  taken  from  me  my  beloved  friend 
In  whom  my  hope  was ;  she  who  did  attend 

To  guide  me,  in  my  f arynge  ever  close ; 

Whose  like  nowe  is  not,  wherfor  I  doe  wend 

A  man  astraye  that  knowes  not  where  he  goes. 

"  Syghtlesse,  I  goe  a  journey  without  end; 

And,  lest  that  I  should  stumble  I  doe  send 
My  staff  before  me  with  unsteady  blowes. 

And  pitiful  it  is  that  I  must  wend, 
A  man  astraye  that  knowes  not  where  he  goes. ' ' 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  47 


15.     RONDEAU 

TYME  hath  throwne  downe  the  robe  he  bare 
Of  winde  and  cold  and  chillye  rayne, 

And  nowe  with  sunbeams  cleare  agayne 

In  lordlye  raiment  doth  he  fare. 

Each  beast  and  birde  doth  nowe  declare 

Harsh-voiced  or  smoothe  the  tidynges  playne; 

Tyme  hath  throwne  downe  the  robe  he  bare 
Of  winde  and  cold  and  chillye  rayne. 

Nowe  fountaynes,  streams  and  brookes  repair 
Their  sheeny  floods  that  downward  drayne 
With  gold  and  silver  in  their  trayne  ; 

All  thynges  new  vesture  nowe  doe  weare : 

Tyme  hath  throwne  downe  the  robe  he  bare. 


16.     RONDEAU 

SALUTE  for  me  the  fellowe-ship 
Nowe  met  together  joyouslie, 

And  saye  howe  gladlye  I  would  be 

Beside  them  where  the  flagons  dip ; 

But  old  Age  hath  me  in  his  grip, 
And  dried  the  sap  of  youth  in  me : 

Salute  for  me  the  fellowe-ship 
Nowe  met  together  joyouslie. 

Tyme  was  I  loved  a  wench's  lip, 

And  all  my  veins  did  dance  with  glee 
That  nowe  be  taut  with  miserie, 

Soe  tightly  held  in  ague's  grip: 

Salute  for  me  the  fellowe-ship. 


48  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

FRANCOIS  VILLON 

(1431-    ?    ) 

17.  FROM  THE  GREATER  TESTAMENT 
(XXXVIII-XLI) 

I  KNOWE  full  well  I  am  noe  saynte 
That  moves  in  heaven's  starrie  zone 

Star-crowned  beyond  mortal  taynte. 
My  father's  dead;  beneath  the  stone 
He  lies  whose  soule  to  Godde  is  flowne. 

I  knowe  my  mother  too  must  die — 
She's  well  aware  of  it,  poor  crone — 

And  her  son's  lyfe  doth  hasten  bye. 

I  knowe  that  all  men,  rich  and  poor, 
Wyse  men  and  foolish,  priest  and  churl. 

Niggards  and  who  keep  open  door. 
Tall,  short,  fair,  uglye,  serf  and  earl, 
And  every  hussyf,  wench,  or  girl 

In  fillet  bound,  or  hooded  tall 
With  flaps  that  round  the  collar  curl, 

By  Death  are  seized  one  and  all. 

And  Paris  dies  and  Helen  dies, 

And  each  in  dyinge  hath  such  payne 
That  all  his  breath  out  of  him  flies. 

And  gall  over  his  heart  doth  drayne ; 

And  then  he  sweats,  Godde  knowes!  amayne, 
And  theryn  hath  but  little  ease. 

For  none  of  all  his  kin  be  fayne 
To  bear  for  him  his  agonies. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  49 

Death  leaves  him  shudderynge  and  growne  wan, 

His  nose  down-curved,  his  veins  displayed, 
His  neck  all  puffed,  flesh  smooth  to  span. 

With  nerves  and  joints  all  wracked  and  frayed; 

And  woman  too,  soe  tender  made, 
Soe  soft,  soe  smooth  bye  breast  and  thyghes, 

Aye,  even  she  must  thus  be  laid. 
Or  else  fare  straighte  to  Paradyse. 


i8.     THE    BALLADE    OF    LOVELY    LADYES    OF 
LONG  AGOE 

O  TELL  me  where  and  in  what  lande 

Is  Flora  and  the  Roman  lass  ? 
Where's  Thais  or  the  Ladye  grande 

That  was  her  equal  in  all  grace  ? 

Saye  where  doth  Echo  hyde  her  face 
Whose  voice  bye  streame  and  pool  doth  straye. 

Whose  beauty  more  than  mortal  was  ? — 
But  where  are  the  white  snowes  borne  awaye  ? 

Where  nowe  is  learned  Heloise 

For  whom  poor  Abelard  lost  all 
Quick  fuel  of  love's  agonies. 

And  answered  toe  the  holye  call  ? 

Likewyse  I  aske  what  doth  befall 
The  Queene  that  Buridan  did  slaye. 

Flung  to  the  Seine  for  burial  ? — 
But  where  are  the  white  snowes  borne  awaye  ? 

Queene  Blanche  as  anye  lily  wan. 

Whose  voice  was  sweet  as  syrens  fayne; 

Berte,  Bic6,  Alice  loved  of  man, 

Or  Ermengarde  that  ruled  in  Mayne  ? 


50  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Or  Jean  the  goode  lass  from  Lorrayne 
Burnt  by  tht  Englysh  rabble  ?     Saye 

Where  are  they  Virgin  Sovereigne  ? — 
But  where  are  the  white  snowes  borne  awaye  ? 

Prince,  not  thys  weeke,  thys  year  shall  deigne 
To  thee  their  hidynge  to  betraye; 

The  onlye  answer  thou  shalt  gaine — 
But  where  are  the  white  snowes  borne  awaye  ? 


19.     FROM  THE  GREATER  TESTAMENT 
(XXII,  XXIII,  AND  XXVI) 

I  DOE  bemoan  my  youthful  sinne 

And  the  steep  road  I  hurried  bye 
Until  I  met  old  Age  therin 

That  hid  youth's  going  from  myne  eye. 

Nought  of  his  footsteps  I  descrye 
Nor  palfrey's  hoof-prints.     How  went  he  ? 

As  sudden  as  a  bird  doth  flye, 
And  left  me  nought  but  beggarye. 

He  is  fled  awaye  and  I  am  left 

Who  little  knowe  nor  understand. 
Less  ripe  than  rotten,  all  bereft 

Of  mirth  and  money,  house  and  land. 

I  bear  upon  me  the  harsh  brand 
Of  mine  own  kind  who  from  the  fold 

Doe  drive  me  with  unkindlye  hand 
Because  I  have  but  little  gold. 

Ah !  Godde,  hadde  I  in  my  wild  youth 
But  studied  well  and  walked  arighte, 

I  mighte  have  hadde  an  house  in  sooth 
And  lain  between  warm  sheets  o'  nighte. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  51 

But,  naye !  from  school  I  took  my  flighte 
As  anye  naughty e  ladde  will  doe. 

Nowe  when  these  woeful  words  I  write 
My  heart  comes  nigh  to  break  in  two. 


20.     FROM  THE  GREATER  TESTAMENT 
(LXXVI-LXXIX) 

I  GIVE  my  bodye  untoe  her  that  gatte 

Our  grandam  earth ;  theron,  though  worms  maye  bite 
Untoe  the  bone,  they  shall  fynde  little  fatte, 

Soe  long  hath  hunger  fought  a  winnynge  fighte. 

Straighte  to  the  earth  let  it  be  borne  outrighte: 
From  earth  that  came,  to  earth  at  last  doth  come ; 

For  everythynge,  unlesse  my  pen  mys-write, 
To  its  owne  place  at  laste  goes  gladlye  home. 

Untoe  my  more  than  father  haplye  founde, 

William  of  Villon,  him  who  was  more  milde 
Untoe  the  babe  in  swaddlynge  raiment  bounde 

Than  ever  Mother  bye  her  sonne  beguiled; 

Him  that  did  save  me  from  adventures  wilde 
Full  often — I  doe  give,  lest  he  forgette 

Or  else  be  loth  to  praye  for  his  dead  childe, 
The  score  of  books  within  my  cabinet. 

Untoe  this  godlye  man  likewyse  I  will 

The  tale  that  at  my  biddynge  Tabarie 
Did  copye  out  in  large  script  with  his  quill. 

Than  whom  was  never  man  more  trustworthye. 

In  quires  beneath  the  table  dustilye 
It  lies,  and  though  the  laboured  style  wherwith 

'Tis  written  be  a  hindrance,  all,  pardie! 
May  be  forgiven  for  the  matter's  pith. 


52  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Untoe  my  Mother, — for  her  soul's  relief 

That  therwith  on  our  Ladye  she  maye  call, 
Who  for  my  sinnes  hath  had  much  bitter  grief 

God  knoweth,  and  much  sorrowynge  withal; 

Noe  other  castel  have  I  nor  strong  wall 
Whertoe  my  bodye  and  my  soul  maye  flee 

When  on  my  path  a-manye  perils  fall, 
Nor  my  poor  Mother  hath  no  more  than  me  : — 


21.     BALLADE  MADE  FOR  HIS  MOTHER  THAT 
SHE  MIGHTE  PRAYE  TOE  OUR  LADYE 

LADYE  of  heaven  that  o'er  earth  hath  swaye 

And  of  Hell's  marshes  art  most  Royal  Reeve, 
Grant  toe  thy  humble  Christian  that  doth  praye, 

To  be  of  those  thy  virtue  doth  retrieve. 

Though  all  unworthye  of  thy  great  reprieve, 
Ladye  and  mistresse  whom  I  worship  well. 
Yet  can  thy  virtues  save  my  soul  from  Hell 

Despite  my  sinfulnesse,  and  purge  the  offence 
Soe  that  I  win  to  heaven.     Truth  I  tell : 

And  in  this  faith  I  live  and  will  goe  hence. 

Tell  toe  thy  Sonne  that  I  am  his;  my  shame 
I  bear  untoe  him  to  be  purged  of  sinne. 

Forgive  me  even  as  the  Egyptian  dame 
Or  as  the  clerk  Theophilus  who  did  win 
Thy  pardon  and  a  new  life  did  begin, 

Though  he  hadde  given  his  soul  in  bond  to  Hell. 

Guard  me,  O  Virgin,  from  foul  Satan's  spell 
Soe  that  the  holye  bread  I  taste,  nor  thence 

Be  driven,  till  Tyme  sounde  my  passynge  bell : 
And  in  this  faith  I  live  and  will  goe  hence. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  53 

I  am  but  a  poor  old  woman  whose  dim  eyes 

That  lack  book-learning,  do  with  joy  behold 
Within  the  church  a  painted  Paradyse 

With  harps  and  eke  with  lutes  manifold; 

Therunder  a  huge  cauldron  wherin  roll'd 
The  damned  seethe  for  ever  in  deep  Hell, 
The  which  I  fear.     0  Goddesse,  let  me  dwell 

Where  joy  is.     Thou,  the  sinner's  sure  defence. 
Fill  me  with  faith,  and  all  my  sloth  dispell: 

And  in  this  faith  I  live  and  will  goe  hence. 

Thou  barest.  Virgin  Princesse,  without  stain, 

Jesus  the  Kynge  that  doth  for  ever  reign. 
The  Almightye,  seeinge  us  in  thrall  to  Hell, 

Didde  give  his  deare  sonne  for  our  soul's  offence 
To  die,  and  from  the  heavens  where  he  doth  dwell, 
Our  Lord  did  brynge  salvation  as  I  tell : 

And  in  this  faith  I  live  and  will  goe  hence. 


22.  EPITAPH  IN  BALLADE  FORM  WHICH  VIL- 
LON MADE  FOR  HIMSELF  AND  HIS  FEL- 
LOWES,  EXPECTYNGE  TO  BE  HANGED 
ALONG  WITH  THEM 

O  BROTHER  men  that  live  when  we  have  end, 

Let  not  your  hearts  'gainst  us  be  hardenynge ; 
For  if  on  us  your  pitie  ye  doe  spend, 

Likewyse  to  you  shall  Godde  be  pityinge. 

Here  maye  ye  see  our  six  lean  trunks  a-swynge, 
And  our  dead  flesh  that,  livynge,  we  o'er-fed 
Plucked  out  bye  bits  and  rottynge  toe  to  head. 

While  we,  bare  bones,  to  ash  and  dust  be  come. 
From  our  ill  hap  let  noe  man's  mirth  be  bred. 

But  praye  Godde  to  absolve  us  of  our  doome. 


54  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

If,  brother  men,  we  call,  beyond  amend, 

Disdayne  us  not  for  our  sore  trespassynge, 
For  well  ye  knowe  howe  manye  men  doe  wend 

On  evil  wayes  thro'  witless  wanderynge; 

But  intercession  for  our  soules  doe  brynge 
Untoe  the  Holye  Virgin's  Sonne  instead, 
That  He  of  His  deare  grace  have  still  toe  shed 

Withal  wherby  to  save  us  from  Hell's  fume. 
Let  noe  man  nowe  misuse  us,  being  dead, 

But  praye  Godde  to  absolve  us  of  our  doome. 

The  rayne  hath  bleached  us  all  from  end  to  end ; 

The  sunne  hath  scorched  us  to  a  blackened  strynge 
Mag-pyes  and  crowes  our  hollo  we  eyes  doe  rend, 

Or  snatch  what  hair  bye  beard  or  browe  doth  clynge. 

And  ever  without  cease  we  swaye  and  swynge. 
Like  monstrous  spindles  ever  fluttered. 
By  the  wind's  shiftye  humours  sore  bested, 

Peck't  close  bye  all  the  birds  that  us  consume 
As  anye  thimble.     Ware  the  waye  we  tread, 

But  praye  Godde  to  absolve  us  of  our  doome. 

Prince  Jesus,  Lord  of  all,  or  live  or  dead, 
O  save  us  from  infernal  serfage  dread. 

That  have  nor  help  nor  holdynge  in  Hell's  gloome. 
Men,  mock  not  what  in  bitter  truth  is  said, 

But  praye  Godde  to  absolve  us  of  our  doome. 


23.     HIS  OWNE  EPITAPH 

ETERNAL  rest  on  him  bestowe, 
O  Lord,  and  everlastynge  light, 
Who  lacked  withal  for  sup  or  bite. 

Shorn  close  on  scalp  and  chin  and  browe. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  55 

Who  was  scrap 't  bare  and  smooth,  I  trowe 
As  any  turnip  round,  poor  wighte: 

Eternal  rest  on  him  bestowe. 

Hard  doome  befell  him  here  belowe. 

Drove  forth  and  smote  him  in  sore  spite. 
Though  ' '  I  appeal  !  "  he  cried  with  mighte, 

A  form  of  speech  that's  playne  enowe: 

Eternal  rest  on  him  bestowe. 


MELLIN  DE  SAINT-GELAIS 

(1487-1558) 

24.     OF  HYS  LADYE 

NOT  all  the  shippes  bye  Venice  quay, 
Nor  oyster-shells  bye  Norman  shore, 

Nor  all  the  swannes  in  Temmes  that  be 
With  arch6d  neck  and  ebon  oar, 
Can  reach  the  tallie  of  her  lore. 

Not  wooinges  made  in  holye  guise, 

Nor  pryde  of  princelynges  got  from  Spayne, 

Nor  all  the  lure  of  cunnynge  lies. 
Nor  all  the  golde  that  misers  gaine. 
Can  match  the  brightnesse  of  her  brayne. 

Not  all  the  beasts  bye  man  untamed. 
Nor  all  the  wiles  of  warrynge  men, 

Nor  all  reprieves  bye  Rome  proclaimed. 
Nor  all  the  words  ere  writ  by  penne, 
Can  halve  the  wisdom  in  her  kenne. 


56  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

MARGUERITE  DE  NAVARRE 

(1492-1549) 

25.     DIZAIN  TO  CLEMENT  MAROT 

IF  but  your  creditors,  the  which  you  chyde, 
Did  knowe  as  I  the  worth  of  your  rare  wit, 
Of  all  your  dettes  you  might  full  soon  be  quit 

Or  great  or  smalle,  whatever  still  maye  byde ; 
If  each  did  holde  a  dizain  duly  writ, 
What  sum  soever  the  full  worth  of  it 

Would  then  be  his  by  thousands  multiplied. 

The  worth  of  money  maye  by  weight  be  tolde, 
But  none  maye  knowe  what  guerdon  doth  befit 

Such  skill  as  yours  beyond  all  worth  of  gold. 


CLEMENT  MAROT 

(1495-1544) 

26.    DIZAIN  IN  ANSWER  TO  THE  FOREGOING 

MY  dunnes  that  untoe  dizains  give  smalle  care. 
Did  read  your  owne.   Wheron  I  say'd,  "You  see, 

My  noble  Michael,  noble  Lucky  fare, 

The  Kynge's  owne  sister  doth  soe  honour  me." 
Straightwaye  they  deemed  me  of  stabilitie, 

And  rained  "Your  worships"  and  "  Respected  Sirs.* 
Thus  was  your  script  to  me  as  golden  ore, 
For  they  did  promise  respyte — nay,  they  swore 

To  let  me  fill — for  promises — my  purse 
While  I  did  sweare  to  borrowe — as  before. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  57 


27.     OF  THE  ABBOT  AND  HIS  VALET 

HIS  grace  the  Abbot  and  his  servynge  ladde 

Are  of  one  claye  as  honey  is  of  wax; 
One  is  a  loon,  the  other  one  is  madde; 

One  loves  a  joke,  the  other  his  sides  cracks; 

One  drinks  goode  wine,  the  other  never  lacks. 
Thus  a  debate  one  nighte  between  them  rose : 
Wineless  his  worship  would  no  more  repose 

Than  he  would  die  of  all  his  friends  bereft, 
Wheras  his  valet's  eyelids  could  not  close 

Whyle  in  the  bowle  a  single  drop  was  left. 


28.     SONG 

WHAT  evil  woes  dull  Hate  maye  breede 

I  wot  not  nor  desire  to  wit, 
But  well  I  wot  the  wounds  doe  bleede 

Since  in  my  heart  Love  hath  alit. 

Love  should  bear  other  name  more  fit 
That  well  were  hight  or  flow  'r  or  weede 
Soe  swift  his  blooms  be  blowne  to  seede. 

Soe  fleet,  or  weede  or  flow'r  insyde 
Her  fickle  heart  wheron  I  dote ; 

In  myne  where  he  doth  ever  byde 
O  call  him  rock  or  starry  mote! 
For  I  doe  ever  live  devote 

To  Love,  and  lovynge  doe  deryde 

Death  that  maye  never  vail  his  pryde. 


68  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


29.     SONG 

HE  who  with  a  random  eye 

Of  sweet  joye  would  have  his  fill, 
Let  him  on  my  Ladye  spye 

Whom  God  keepe  and  guard  from  ill; 
For  she  hath  soe  faire  a  grace 

That  a  thousand  grievous  cares 
Fall  from  him  that  sees  her  face, 

More  alsoe,  if  more  he  bears. 

The  great  worth  that  is  in  her 
.  Is  soe  wonderful  toe  me. 
Always  in  my  heart  a-stir 

Moves  her  gracious  memorye; 
The  fine  beautye  of  her  face 

Makes  me  fear  Death's  dreadful  whim, 
Yet  most  surely  must  her  grace 

Win  for  me  respyte  of  him. 


30.     BALLADE  OF  MAYE  AND  OF  VIRTUE 

FULL  gladlye  in  this  month  of  Maye 

The  Earth  bestirs  her  and  renews; 
Each  lover,  his  old  fondness  fey, 

Seeks  otherwhere  and  hotly  woos. 

Who  in  this  wise  his  love  pursues. 
His  head  is  light  as  anye  feather; 

Another  waye  my  heart  doth  use : 
My  love  doth  laste  throughout  alle  weather. 

Alle  lovely  cheekes  doe  wear  awaye. 
And  at  the  laste  their  beauty  lose; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  50 

T3rme,  grief,  or  sicknesse  doe  waylaye 
And  take  them  in  a  tightened  noose. 
But  nothynge  can  or  maim  or  bruise 

Her  whose  true  heart  is  taut  in  tether; 
And  for  her  beauty's  fadeless  hues, 

My  love  doth  laste  throughout  alle  weather. 

And  she  whose  beauty  thus  doth  staye 

Is  Virtue,  childe  of  heavenly  thews, 
And  to  her  shinynge  height  alwaye 

True  lovers  with  sweete  voice  she  woos. 

"  Come,  lovers,  come!"    ('Tis  thus  she  sues), 
*'  O  long-besought,  come  round  me  gather" 

(Such  speech  this  happy  mayde  doth  use), 
*  *  My  love  doth  laste  throughout  alle  weather. '  * 

Prince,  get  thee  love  of  lastynge  hues 
And  holde  her  faste  in  loyal  tether, 

Soe  mayst  thou  boast,  withouten  ruse, 
* '  My  love  doth  laste  throughout  aile  weather. ' ' 


CHRISTOPHE  PLANTIN 
(1514-1589) 

31.     HAPPINESSE 

WHO  hath  a  well-built  house  both  clean  and  comelye, 
A  garden  with  sweet  flowers  over-growne. 

Good  fruit,  good  wine,  a  child,  a  wyfe  that  dumblye 
Yields  all  her  dutye  to  her  spouse  alone; 

Who  hath  nor  debt,  nor  strife,  nor  love  growne  fickle. 
Nor  wealth  to  claim  from  those  of  kindred  blood; 


60  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Who  hath  content  that  leaves  the  rich  their  mickle, 
And  a  behavioure  that  is  righte  and  good; 

Who  liveth  simplye  and  without  self-seekynge ; 
Who  gives  his  heart  to  godlye  exercise ; 

Who  holds  his  servile  passions  from  out-breakynge, 
Who  keeps  his  spirit  free,  his  judgement  wise; 

Who  counts  his  beads  the  whyle  he  tends  his  prunynge, 

Doth  fynde  lyfe  gentlye  untoe  death  attunynge. 


BOOK   II 


TO 

HILAIRE  BELLOC 


PONTUS  DE  TYARD 

(1521-1603) 

32 

SLEEPE,  sire  of  rest  and  eke  of  dreams  the  sire, 
Nowe  that  the  night's  wide  girth  of  darknesse  dread 
O'er  the  still  aire  her  mystie  shroude  hath  spread, 

Come,  fill  myne  eyes,  0  Sleepe  whom  I  desire. 

For  thy  long  absence  doth  my  spirit  tire, 
And  sharper  feels  its  hardship  endured; 
Come,  Sleepe  and  drowse  it.     Like  a  dupe,  misled 

Bye  thy  sweet  falsehood,  it  maye  seeme  less  dire. 

Already  Silence  with  her  phantom  horde 

Broods  o'er  the  darknesse  of  blynde  nighte  abhorr'd; 

Me  only,  faithful,  dost  thou  leave  forlorn. 
Come,  Sleepe  desired,  and  my  browes  doe  bynde. 

For  I  to  thee  an  offerynge  have  sworn 
Of  nighte-shade  with  thy  poppy-head  entwyn'd. 


PIERRE  DE  RONSARD 

(1524-1585) 

33 

NOWE  ^that  the  skiey  space,  the  solid  claye 
Feel  icy  fetters  or  hard-peltynge  hail. 
And  the  stark  horrour  of  the  frozen  gale 

Stiffens  the  meadowe-grass  to  bristles  graye  ; 

68 


64  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Nowe  that  the  wynde  goes  on  his  rebel  waye, 

Down-hurlynge  rocks,  up-rootynge  trees  that  wail ; 
Nowe  that  the  seas  with  swollen  roar  assail 

Beleaguered  coasts  with  their  soe  wrathful  spraye ; 

Though  Winter  freezes  all,  the  flames  me  fill 
Of  love  that  his  harsh  coldnesse  cannot  kill, 

With  mighte  more  strong  than  the  rude  season's 
holde. 
Beholde  ye  lovers,  my  soe  strange  mishap 
Who  die  of  colde  in  Summer's  kindlynge  lap. 

And  burne  to  death  in  the  chill  heart  of  colde. 


34 

I  SEND  to  thee  a  posie  gathered 

An  hour  agoe,  its  sweet  buds  open  wide ; 

Who  had  not  pluckt  them  ere  the  evenynge  died, 
Had  found  them  fallen  on  the  morrowe  dead. 
Therin  thou  mayst  beholde  thy  beauty  fled, 

And  a  like  end  thy  lovelinesse  betide; 

However  thou  mayst  bear  it  in  thy  pride, 
Like  wither 'd  blossom  it  must  soon  be  sped. 

Tyme  hasteth  ever  bye,  0  sweet  ladye; 
Alas !  not  Tyme,  but  we  alone  speed  on, 
And  soone  lie  stark  beneath  the  cold  head-stone, 

With  our  dead  loves  as  out  of  mynde  as  we. 

Then  look  upon  me  nowe  full  lovinglie, 
Ere  in  the  grave  thy  lovelinesse  be  gone. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  «5 


35 


YOU  spiky  gorse,  you  hollye  thorn-beset, 

One  on  the  waste,  the  other  in  the  wood; 

Ivye  that  clothes  the  walls  of  caverns  rude, 
Sprynges  that  doe  bubble  from  a  sandy  jet; 
Pigeons  that  savoury  kysses  give  and  get, 

Doves  that  doe  wail  their  endlesse  widowhood ; 

You  warblynge  nightyngales  that  ever  brood 
Or  daye  or  night  in  amorous  regret; 

You  red-throat  swallowe,  the  mild  season's  guest, 
If  you  doe  see  my  ladye  in  this  Sprynge 

Amid  the  fresh  green  grass  for  flowers  in  quest. 
Tell  her  I  wait  alone  her  deare  comynge, 

And  howe,  so  dire  my  need,  without  her  blest, 
I  would  to  death  with  greater  thanksgivynge. 


36 

ON  my  return  to  thee  (Ah  me!  my  woe), 
Thy  kyss  was  frostye  and  as  chill  to  taste 
As  bloodless  lips  that  Death  hath  sealed,  and  chaste 

As  Dian  on  her  brother  mighte  bestowe, 

Or  girl  on  grandam;  the  betroth 'd  doth  soe 
When  by  her  chosen  cavalier  embrac'd, 
Without  or  warmth,  or  moisture,  or  fond  haste. 

What  1     Is  my  lip  then  bitter  as  a  sloe  ? 

'Twere  well  thou  hadst  a  lesson  from  the  doves 
That  beak  to  beak  pledge  tenderly  their  loves, 

Amid  the  branches  in  a  long  sweet  bliss. 
Nay,  I  implore  thee  Sweetheart  myne,  alack! 

Kyss  me  with  all  thy  heart  within  thy  kyss; 
And,  if  not  soe,  then  holde  thy  kysses  back. 

E 


66  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


37 


SINCE  she  is  frostye  as  the  Winter  aire, 
Chillye  as  snowe  that  holds  a  heart  of  flint, 
Who  loves  me  onlye  for  her  praise  I  print, 

Why  not  quit  fondnesse  and  my  fatal  faire  ? 

Her  name  and  grandeur  are  a  net  to  snare 
And  hold  me  bounden  to  her  service  in't. 
Mistresse,  my  locks  have  not  soe  graye  a  tint 

But  that  another  may  finde  pleasure  there. 

Love,  like  a  vsranton  childe,  hides  not  the  truth : 
You  have  not  such  rare  lovelinesse  in  sooth 

As  makes  it  wise  to  turn  true  love  av^raye. 
My  April  dayes  v^rill  nevermore  come  back  ; 
Then  love  me  for  the  youth  that  I  doe  lack, 

And  I  will  love  you  when  you  too  are  graye. 


38 

WHEN  thou  art  old  and  bye  the  fire  alone 

Bent  o'er  the  candle  thou  dost  twirl  the  skeine, 
Then  shalt  thou  quaver,  with  bewilder 'd  brayne 

Howe  Ronsard  sang  thy  lovelinesse  long  gone. 

Then  if  thy  servant  heeir  my  lover's  moan 

Though  toil  doth  drowse  her,  yet  at  that  sweet  strayne 
She  shall  arise  to  honour  thy  dead  swaine. 

And  give  thy  name  immortal  benison. 

I  shall  be  buried  and  long  turned  to  claye 
Under  dark  myrtle-trees  wherbye  I  rest ; 
Whyle  thou  besyde  the  hearth  with  shrunken  breast, 

Bewail 'st  the  love  that  thou  didst  spurn  awaye; 
Then  hearken  nowe  to  thy  true  love's  behest: 

Gather  the  roses  of  thy  lyfe  to-daye. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  67 

39.     TO  CASSANDRA 

O  MAYDE  more  tender  yet 

Than  shy  sweet  buds  that  wake 

On  rose-trees  dewy  wet 

When  first  the  daye  doth  break, 

That  from  the  thorny  speare 

Half  green,  half  red  doe  peere  ; 

Faster  than  ivy  clyngs 

With  supple  stems  entwyn'd 
Round  the  stout  oak  in  ryngs 

A  hundred-fold  that  bynd 
With  their  fond  arms  and  slym 
The  whole  wide  girth  of  hym, 

Round  me,  O  faire  and  fond, 

Let  thyne  arms  make  a  ryng; 
Link  fast  the  gentle  bond 

Of  thy  sweet  tetheryng; 
Let  kysses  givn  and  ta'en 
For  evermore  remayne. 

Not  tyme  nor  envious  dread 

Of  other  love  more  meet 
Shall  fynd  me  sundered 

From  thy  sweet  lips,  my  sweet. 
Thus  kissynge  will  we  dwell 
Till  lyfe  bid  us  farewell. 

The  same  moon,  the  same  daye. 

And  the  same  hour  we  two 
Shall  wander  far  awaye. 

Death's  pallid  house  to  view, 
And  those  faire  fields  out-spread 
For  lovers  haply  wed. 


68  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Love's  self  amid  the  flow'rs 
Of  everlastynge  sprynge 

Shall  watch  these  loves  of  ours, 
Under  the  green  boughs  clynge; 

And  we  shall  knowe  the  good 

Of  gentle  loverhood. 

In  fields  of  sedge  and  thyme, 
Along  the  level  grounde, 

With  many  a  mazy  chyme 
Accordant  airs  shall  sounde; 

While,  featly  to  these  tunes 

A  dancer  swayes  and  swoones. 

There  heaven's  unclouded  space 
Shynes  ever  with  clear  light; 

No  serpent  thro'  the  maze 
Spits  venom  in  its  spite; 

For  ever  in  those  trees 

Birds  synge  their  melodies; 

Soft  wyndes  for  ever  goe 
With  gentle  sound  a-styr. 

For  ever  laurels  throwe 

Their  coolynge  shadowe  there ; 

There  lovely  flowers  do  swaye 

That  never  fade  awaye. 

Somewhere  in  the  wyde  space 
This  happye  garden  covers 

We  two  shall  fynde  our  place 
Amid  the  throngynge  lovers, 

Unwearied  as  these 

In  love's  sweet  ecstasies. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  69 


40 


HERE  is  the  wood  wherof  my  angel  sweete 

Thrilled  all  the  boughs  in  April  with  her  song; 
Here  are  the  flowers  that  then  felt  her  feete 

When  lonely  in  sweet  thought  she  went  along; 
Here  is  the  meadowe  green  wheron  she  stray 'd 

That  lusty  grew  at  wafture  of  her  hande, 
The  soft  enamel  of  the  younglynge  blade, 

Where  she  made  gentle  pillage  of  the  lande ; 
Here  did  she  synge,  and  there  her  teares  did  flowe; 

Here  did  she  smile,  and  there  her  eyes  transfixt 
My  soul  soe  deep  that  downe  to  death  I  goe ; 

Here  sat  she;  there  her  mazy  footsteps  mixt: 
On  this  frail  loome  thought-builded,  Love  doth  weave 
The  shadowy  raiment  of  the  lyfe  I  live. 


41 

NOT  sunrise  that  doth  sette  the  rose  a-fire. 
Nor  lilies  growynge  where  the  streame  is  thin, 
Nor  sounds  of  lute,  nor  birds'  melodious  din, 

Nor  costly  gemmes  held  fast  in  golden  wire, 

Nor  Zephyrs  pantynge  with  soe  warm  desire, 

Nor  surge  that  round  the  tall  ship's  prowe  doth  spin, 
Nor  dance  of  Nymphs  above  the  babblynge  lin, 

Nor  all  thynges  blossomynge  in  Sprynge's  attire, 

Nor  arm6d  camp  with  pointed  lances  spined, 
Nor  shady  caverns  with  smooth  mosses  lined. 

Nor  forest  boughes  high-roofynge  the  greene  maze. 
Nor  solemn  silence  of  dumb  rocks  forlorne. 
Give  me  such  pleasure  as  a  field  unshorne 

Where  without  hope  my  hopefulnesse  doth  graze. 


70  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


42 


AS  you  maye  see  upon  the  stem  in  Maye 
The  younglynge  rose's  lovely  bud  new-burst 
Make  heaven  jealous  of  its  hue  when  first 

Dawn  sprinkles  dew  upon  the  new-born  daye : 

Grace  and  sweet  love  within  its  leaves  alwaye 
Make  gardens  redolent,  till  it  doth  thirst 
Too  ardent  for  the  rayne,  and  soon  immerst 

Dies,  leaf  by  leaf,  upon  the  witherynge  spraye. 

'Twas  thus  that  thou,  in  thy  first  youthfulnesse, 
When  earth  and  heaven  did  thy  beauty  blesse, 

Wast  slayne  by  Fate  and  lower 'd  to  thy  tomb. 
Take  thou  my  sighes  and  teares  for  offerynge, 
This  bowle  of  milke,  this  basket  full  of  sprynge, 

That,  live  or  dead,  thy  body  rose-like  bloom. 


43.     ON  HIS  CHOICE  OF  A  GRAVE 

CAVES,  and  streames  that  downward  slyde 
From  the  rockye  mountain  syde, 
That  toward  the  ground  belowe 
Fall  and  flowe; 

And  ye  waves  and  forests  greene 
By  meanderynge  meadows  seene. 
And  ye  banks,  and  boughs  that  wave, 
Hark  my  stave ! 

When  both  Heav'n  and  Tyme  decyde 
I  no  longer  maye  abyde, 
But  must  hence  be  borne  awaye 
From  the  daye. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  71 

I  forbid  that  men  should  break 
Costly e  marble  for  my  sake, 
Vainlye  a  f aire  stone  to  have 
For  my  grave. 

But  in  marble's  stead  a  tree 
I  would  have  to  shadowe  me, 
Wherupon  the  boughs  are  seene 
Ever  greene. 

From  my  bodye  maye  there  sprynge 
Ivye  roots  and  stems  that  clynge, 
And  about  me  be  enwound 
Round  and  round. 

Maye  the  tendrils  of  the  vine 
Twist  about  this  grave  of  myne, 
Sheddynge  lightly  everywhere 
Shadowes  spare. 

Maye  the  shepherds  keep  for  aye 
Every  yeare  my  festal  daye; 
Maye  both  laddes  and  lambes  be  founde 
Nigh  my  mounde. 

Then  the  offys  dulye  said 
And  their  tribute  rendered, 
Maye  they  hail  my  shade  and  saye 
In  this  waye : 

"  What  renowne  is  thyne,  O  fane 
Since  within  thy  mound  is  lain 
Him  whose  verses  everywhere 
Fill  the  aire! 


72  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

' '  Him  who  whyle  he  dwelt  with  us 
Never  once  grew  envious 
Of  the  honours  of  the  great 
Lords  of  state. 

"  Naye,  nor  ever  taught  th'  abuse 
Of  love's  potion,  nor  the  use 
Of  the  art  with  magic  blent 
Ancient; 

'  *  But  bye  meadoweland  and  wood 
Showed  the  sacred  Sisterhood 
Tramplynge  thro'  the  grasses  tall 
To  his  call. 

* '  For  he  made  from  out  his  lyre 
Such  accordant  sounds  suspire, 
Hallow 'd  with  melodious  words 
Fields  and  herds. 

* '  Maye  sweet  manna  aye  be  shed 
Where  he  nowe  lies  buried, 
And  the  dewy  balms  that  swaye 
Nights  in  Maye. 

"  Round  about  him  maye  there  sprynge 
Grass,  and  waters  murmurynge, 
Ever  green  be  one,  and  one 
Flowynge  on. 

* '  We  rememberynge  his  soe  great 
Fame  doe  yearly  dedicate 
Rites  that  else  we  doe  assigne 
Pan  divine. ' ' 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  78 

Thus  shall  shepherd  laddes  declare 
Pourynge  manye  cupfuls  there 
O'er  me  in  a  mingled  flood, 
Milk,  and  blood 

Of  their  youngest  lamb,  whyle  I 
In  my  new  abode  shall  lie 
Where  the  ransomed  spirits  meet 
Joy  complete. 

Neither  hail  nor  chillye  snowe 
To  those  regions  can  win  thro', 
There  noe  thunder-bolts  accurst 
Ever  burst. 

But  for  ever  there  doth  last 
Undespoil'd  of  blight  or  blast 
Verdure ;  and  for  ever  there 
Sprynge  is  faire. 


JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY 

{1525-1560) 

44 

IF  Lyfe's  full  span  be  but  a  daye  that's  sped 
From  out  eternity;  if  years  spin  bye, 
Drivynge  our  days  before  them  hopelesslie; 

If  all  thynges  born  be  thus  soe  swiftlye  fled, 

Howe  dost  thou  ponder,  0  soul  emprison6d  ? 
Why  takst  thou  pleasure  in  soe  dark  a  sky, 
Whenas  thou  art  well-fledg6d  and  mayst  fly 

To  brighter  dwellynge,  with  strong  wing  dispread  ? 


74  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

There  is  that  good  wherunto  all  doe  presse, 
There  is  that  ease  wherfor  all  souls  doe  praye, 
There  love  is  and  sweet  pleasure  evermore, 
There,  O  my  soul,  in  everlastyngnesse, 

Beauty  long-sought  shall  light  thy  lofty  waye, 
And  thou  have  syghte  of  that  thou  dost  adore. 


45 

STRANGER  that  seekest  Rome  in  Rome,  and  nought 

Of  Rome  in  Rome  mayst  nowe  perceive  at  all, 
These  palaces  and  arches  long  since  wrought 

And  crumblynge  walls  are  what  men  Rome  nowe 

call. 
Beholde  what  pryde,  what  ruin!  and  howe  she 

Beneath  whose  yoke  the  whole  wyde  world  did 

bende 
Was  sometyme  bound  by  her  owne  emperie 

And  slaine  by  Tyme  that  maketh  all  thynges  ende. 
Rome  is  Rome's  onlye  monument  to  fynde. 

And  Rome  by  Rome  herself  was  over-throwne ; 
Tyber  alone  that  to  the  sea  doth  wynde 

Remains  of  Rome.     0  world  inconstant  growne ! 
That  which  is  firm  is  by  Tyme's  hand  undone. 
And  that  is  fiittynge  doth  resistlesse  runne. 


46 

NOT  the  wild  wrath  of  flames  that  skyward  shoot, 
Nor  ruthlesse  cleavage  of  the  conquerynge  sword, 

Nor  madden 'd  soldiery  a-thirst  for  loot, 

That  oft,  O  Rome,  hath  plunder 'd  thy  rich  hoard. 

Nor  bio  we  on  blowe  of  fickle  Fortune's  axe. 
Nor  the  slow  rivynge  of  Tyme's  thwarted  steel, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  75 

Nor  spite  of  men,  nor  jealous  gods'  attacks, 
Nor  traitorous  mighte  within  the  commonweal, 

Nor  the  swift  tumult  of  loud  wynds  that  rave, 
Nor  the  o'er-flowynge  of  old  Tyber's  tyde 

That  oftentymes  hath  drown 'd  thee  in  his  wave. 
Hath  ought  avail'd  to  lower  thy  great  pryde 

That  with  the  relique  of  thy  glorious  days 

Yet  filleth  all  beholders  with  amaze. 


47 

THE  Berecynthian  in  her  chariot 

Tower-crowned,  from  whose  womb  many  Gods 

had  birth, — 

Such  was  this  ancient  citye  in  her  mirth, 
And  proud  of  the  full  brood  that  she  begot. 
This  citye  ev'n  the  Phrygian's  womb  could  not 

Out-vie  in  progeny;  o'er  all  the  earth 

Her  mighty  swaye  out-topped  all  other  worth 
And  had  noe  likenesse  save  her  ovme  proud  lot. 

Rome  had  but  Rome  for  righte  belikenynge, 
Rome  had  but  Rome  alone  to  cause  her  dread; 
And,  bye  the  eternal  synod  ordered. 

No  human  power  had  righte  of  challengynge j 
Her  whose  proud  mighte  did  match  the  world's, 

whose  head 

Rose  dauntlesse  to  the  sky's  environynge. 

48 

SLEEPE  that  most  heavenly e  of  all  boones  is  deemed. 
Softer  than  honey  sealed  each  weary  lid. 
When  Love,  full-laden  with  his  pleasures,  slid 

Straight  thro'  the  ivory  gateway,  and  I  dreamed. 


76  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

As  ivy  twines  a  marble  shaft,  meseemed 

Her  alabaster  bosom  soe  I  did, 

Like  wanton  willowes  that  the  Loire  bestrid, 
Claspynge  the  fertile  bankes  wherbye  he  streamed. 

Love's  cruel  flame  that  smote  my  drowsy  blood 
Set  burnynge  bye  his  swift-sped  arrowe's  kiss 
Made  my  soule  trespass  on  her  lips  of  rose, 
I  on  the  brink  of  swift  oblivion's  flood, 

When  wakefulnesse,  growne  jealous  of  my  bliss. 
Did  rouse  sleep's  warder  and  his  doors  unclose. 


49 

WHEN  I  could  taste  (as  nowe  no  more  maye  be) 
The  honey  sweete  of  thy  soft  syllables, 
Thou  hid'st  thy  heavenly  face,  thyne  eyes  whose 

Doe  holde  me  nowe  in  dire  captivitie.  [spells 

Nowe  when  soe  sorrowful  a  fate  I  dree 

More  deaf  than  a  stunned  shore  loud  ocean  quells, 
Then  art  thou  fain  of  my  colde  shape  that  dwells 

In  outer  solitude  most  shadowie. 

What  evil  chancel     Was  stranger  grief  e'er  tolde  ? 
Nowe  maye  I  see,  as  bye  a  limner  made. 
Her  beauty  wherof  I  am  like  to  die ; 
Nowe  maye  I  touch  the  smooth  hand  and  beholde 
The  lovely  eyes  of  her  who  mighte  me  aide. 
Yet  have  not  hearynge  of  her  lightest  sighe. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  T7 

SO.     A  THRESHER  OF  WHEAT  TO  THE 
WYNDES 

TO  you  light  troupe  that  ryde 
On  movynge  wings  and  glyde 

Above  the  world  and  slake  it, 
And  with  your  murmur  soft 
Move  the  green  shade  and  oft 

With  gentle  tremors  shake  it — 

For  you  I  violets  cull, 
And  flowers  beautiful. 

These  roses  and  these  lilies, — 
These  roses  all  soe  red 
And  newly  opened, 

These  pinks  and  daffodillies. 

Nowe  with  your  gentle  breath 
Breathe  on  the  plaine  beneath, 

And  lightly  fan  this  meadowe, 
Whyle  I  doe  sweat  and  straine 
At  threshynge  of  my  graine, 

And  noon  is  without  shadow*. 


51 

I  HATE  the  Florentines'  pelf-huntynge  race, 
I  hate  the  dull  sense  of  the  Siennese, 

I  hate  Venetians  for  their  double  face, 
I  hate  the  falsehood  of  the  Genoese, 
I  hate  (but  wot  not  why)  the  Ferrarese, 

I  hate  the  Lombards  for  their  faithlesse  grace, 

And  Naples  peacocks  for  their  pompous  pace, 
And  coward  Romans  for  their  slothful  ease. 


78  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

I  hate  rebellious  Englyshman,  brave  Scot, 

Burgundian  traitor,  and  French  blabbynge  tongue, 
And  Spanysh  pryde,  and  Germans  at  the  bung: 

I  hate  some  vice  in  every  lande  I  wot. 

I  hate  my  sinful  self,  but  still  more  strong 

I  hate  a  pedant  more  than  all  the  lot. 


52 

HAPPIE  is  he  that  from  a  faire  voyage 
Comes  home  as  came  the  travell'd  Ulysses 
Or  him  that  raped  the  fleece,  wajnvorn,  in  ease 

With  his  owne  kindred  to  live  out  hys  age. 

When  shall  I  see  agayne  myne  owne  village. 

My  hearth's  blue  smoke  ?     O  when  agayne  shall 
So  weary  eyes  behold  the  home  that  is        [these 

More  deare  to  me  than  a  Duke 's  heritage  ? 

Dearer  to  me  my  father's  roofs  that  lean 
Than  any  Roman  palace's  proud  gates; 
Dearer  to  me  than  marble  the  thin  slates ; 

Dearer  to  me  my  Loire  than  Tyber's  sheen. 
Dwarf  Lyre's  top  than  the  Palatinate's, 

Soft  Anjou  aire  than  anye  sea-breeze  keen. 


LOUISE  LABE 
(1526-1566) 

53 

WHILE  that  myne  eyes  with  woeful  teares  doe  flood 

Lamentynge  ever  thy  lost  companie. 
And  while  that,  sighes  and  sobbynges  sore  withstood. 

My  voice  maye  still  make  f alterynge  melodie ; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  79 

While  that  my  tremblynge  fingers  yet  maye  thrill 

The  light  lute  string  to  tell  thy  gracious  wayes ; 
While  that  my  forlorn  sprite  hath  all  its  will 

In  knowynge  nought  save  thee  and  thy  sweete 

prayse ; — 
That  while  I  will  not  chyde  slow-comynge  Death. 

But  when  myne  eyes  are  waterlesse  for  woe, 
When  my  voice  breaks,  when  my  hande  blundereth, 

And  my  soule  in  this  world  hath  noe  more  showe 
Of  fond  obeisance  to  thy  love's  deare  swaye, 
Then  maye  black  Death  make  blynde  my  brightest 

daye. 

54 

SCARCE  on  my  yieldynge  pillowe  doe  I  bend 
And  fynde  theron  my  soe  desired  rest, 
Than  my  sad  spirit  from  my  heavynge  breast 

Straightwaye  to  thee  doth  fly,  beloved  friend. 

A  dream  to  me  thy  seemynge  self  doth  send 
So  long  denied  me,  and  my  bosom  blest 
Holdes  all  the  happinesse  of  long  request 

In  sighes  and  teareful  sobbynges  without  end. 

O  gentle  sleepe,  O  solace  of  sweet  Nighte, 
0  pleasant  rest,  soe  full  of  such  deep  peace, 
Take  not  awaye  this  dream  that  is  my  staye ; 
And,  if  my  poor  soule  never  maye  have  sighte. 
Grant  that  my  dream  in  slumber  maye  not  cease 
To  brynge  the  happinesse  denied  by  daye. 


80  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

REMI  BELLEAU 
(1528-1577) 

55.     APRIL 

APRIL,  pryde  of  all  the  yeare 
When  appeare 

Leaves,  and  sap  in  fleecy  bud 
Gently  stirs  with  hope  to  yield 
Fruit  fulfilled 

From  the  younglynges  of  the  wood ; 

April,  pryde  of  meadowe-sheene 
Gold  and  greene. 

She  whose  lavish  whim  doth  shed 
Hues  and  flowers  a  thousand-fold 
On  the  moulde 

In  her  glory  garmented; 

April,  pryde  of  wyndes  that  sighe 
Lightly  bye. 

In  whose  fannynge  her  slim  thread 
Under  boughs  a  snare  doth  weave 
To  bereave 

Flora  of  her  maidenhead; 

April,  thy  soft  hande  alone 
Slips  the  zone 

Laying  Nature's  bosom  bare. 
Stored  with  odours  and  with  flowers 
That  in  showers 

Sweeten  all  the  earth  and  aire; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  81 

April,  pryde  and  pomp  of  Sprynge 
Flourishynge 

On  my  Ladye's  locks  that  meet 
O'er  her  browes  and  on  her  bosom 
Brimmed  with  blossom 

Thousand-fold  and  full  of  sweet ; 

April,  on  thy  smilynge  face 
Love's  own  grace, 

Lure  and  rapture  of  sweet  breath; 
April,  scent  of  Gods  enshrined 
On  the  wynde 

Sheddynge  odour  far  beneath; 

'Tis  thy  gentle  summonynge 
That  doth  brynge 

Back  again  the  truant  swallowes 
That  in  Winter  fled  afar, — 
They  that  are 

Heralds  to  the  Sprynge  that  followes. 

Thorny  brisir  and  thorny  boughe 
Blossom  nowe; 

Lilies,  pinks,  and  roses  red, 
That  the  sunny  dayes  do  quicken 
Throng  and  thicken 

In  their  lovely  robes  outspread; 

And  the  nightyngale  doth  sweet 
Songs  repeat; 

In  the  shade  he  warbles  long, 
Breaks  the  lilt  and  links  agayn : 
The  sweet  chayne 

Of  his  never-endynge  song. 


82  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Love,  when  thou  art  haply  come 
No  more  numb, 

Breathes  agayne  with  gentle  breath. 
And  awakes  the  smoulderynge  fire 
Of  desire 

That  chill  Winter  smothereth. 

In  this  weather  fresh  and  sunny 
Bees  mayke  honey, 

Swarmynge  all  the  sweets  to  sup; 
Each  from  flow'r  to  flower  dallies 
Deep  in  chalice 

There  to  drink  its  odour  up. 

Maye  perchance  hath  fresher  wynde, 
Softer  rind 

On  her  fruits,  and  dews  that  bear 
Manna  and  the  sweet  that  thryves 
In  the  hives 

Fostered  by  her  gracious  aire ; 

Yet  my  song  I  give  to  her 
That  doth  bear 

Her  faire  name  that  founde  her  home 
On  the  wavy  sea  that  broke, 
And  awoke 

Into  lyfe  amid  the  foam. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  88 


ESTIENNE  PASQUIER 
(1529-161S) 

56 

THY  sighte  denied  when  deare  to  me, 
A  month  to  me  seemed  June  to  June, 
And  one  sadde  houre  devoyde  of  boone 

Was  as  a  daye,  or  even  three. 

Nowe  that  no  more  thy  selfe  I  see. 
Since  I  for  thee  no  longer  swoone, 
A  single  daye  would  seeme  a  moone, 

Wert  thou  besyde  for  companie. 

And  yet  thy  beauty  stayes  as  brighte 
As  when  I  found  therin  delighte, 

Who  am  noe  more  in  Cupid's  pow'r. 
'Tis  sure  that  beauty  doth  not  breede 
Love,  but  that  love  doth  sowe  the  seede 

Of  what  we  deem  is  beauty's  flower. 


OLIVIER  DE  MAGNY 

(1530-1559) 

57 

HAPPYE  the  man  beyonde  the  city's  hail 

Who  lives  on  lande  his  fathers  left  him,  where, 
His  peaceful  husbandry  his  only  care. 

He  hankers  not  for  bliss  beyond  his  pale. 

He  never  knowes  nor  foode  nor  raiment  fail, 
But  heedeth  only  that  his  tilth  shall  beare ; 
And,  if  his  householde  hath  not  noble  ware. 

Nor  hath  it  burden  of  misfortune's  bale. 


84  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Nowe  doth  he  graft  a  tree,  nowe  doth  he  twine 
Round  stout  elm-branches  the  unstable  vine, 

Nowe  breaks  a  dam  to  water  his  parched  lawne; 
Then  home  at  evenynge  with  his  smalle  clan 
He  sups  bye  candle-lighte,  a  happye  man 

Amid  good  cheere,  and  slumbers  deepe  till  dawne. 


ESTIENNE  JODELLE 
(1532-1573) 

AS  one  astraye  within  the  forest  deepe, 

Far  from  the  road,  nor  path  nor  grange  in  sighte ; 

As  one  that  on  the  sea  doth  dread  the  mighte 
Of  vast,  wynd-vexed  waves  that  downward  sweepe ; 
As  one  that  wanders  on  the  fields  that  sleepe, 

Without  a  starre,  soe  I  in  such  sore  plighte 

Have  beene  astraye  without  or  path  or  lighte, 
Like  barque  o'erwhelm6d  or  bewilder 'd  sheepe. 

But  when  I  see,  as  they,  my  nighte  o'er-worne, 
By  forest,  field  or  wave,  the  fold,  the  quay. 

The  boone  seems  greater  than  the  evil  borne. 

Soe  I  who,  lackynge  thee,  was  thus  forlorne, 
Forget  at  sighte  of  thy  faire  radiancie, 

Forest  and  ocean,  darke  and  tempest-torne. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  *§ 


JEAN-ANTOINE  DE  BAIF 
(I 532-1 589) 

59.     SPRING  SONG 

IDLE  Winter's  colde 
Nowe  at  last  is  spent; 

Blithesome  Sprynge  beholde 
Full  of  ravishment. 

Earth  is  fledged  with  greene 
Full  of  buds  aswaye; 

Leafage  maykes  a  screene 
In  the  woodlande  waye. 

Lighte  of  foot,  the  girl, 
She  no  slug-a-bed, 

Ere  the  rose  unfurl, 
Plucks  its  drowsy  head; 

Soe  she  comelier  seeme 
With  the  bud  on  breast, 

Or  the  rose  she  deem 
For  her  lover  best. 

In  his  hande  toe  tayke 
As  a  pledge  of  troth. 

And  with  kissynge  slake 
Love  that's  never  loth. 

Listen  from  the  pale. 

Shepherd's  pipe  that  shrill 

Makes  the  nightyngale 
Sweeter  sorrowe  spill. 


86  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

See  the  waves  that  flowe 
Crisp6d  in  the  brooks, 

Trees  with  greene  aglowe 
In  their  glassy  looks. 

Nowe  the  sea  is  soft, 

Stay'd  and  smooth  the  wind 

Makes  the  sailes  to  waft 
Vessels  untoe  Ind. 

Nowe  have  all  birdes  sweet 
Song  with  voices  suave. 

Larks  above  the  wheat 
Swannes  upon  the  wave; 

Swallowes  round  the  roof, 
Nightyngales  that  nest 

In  the  woods  aloof, 
Synge  nor  ever  rest. 

Sorrowe  and  content 
Of  my  love  I'll  synge, 

An  his  flame  be  spent 
Or  still  wantonynge. 

Why  then  should  I  quell 
Songs  that  over-brim 

When  all  thynges  up-well 
With  the  season's  whim  ? 


FLBURS-DB-LYS  ST 


GUY  DE  TOURS 

(        ?        ) 


60 


I  HAVE  noe  eyes  save  when  on  her  I  looke, 

Nor  noe  desire  save  that  she  doth  beget, 
Nor  anye  sighs  save  when  by  her  forsooke, 

Nor  anye  thought  save  it  be  on  her  set. 
Soe  deeply  is  she  printed  on  my  braine, 

There  is  nought  else  of  worth  untoe  my  minde ; 
All  speech  of  other  ladies  seemeth  vaine, 

As  that  to  me  another  should  be  kinde; 
I  have  noe  feet  save  unto  her  I  wend, 

I  have  noe  hands  save  when  her  owne  I  feel ; 
I  have  noe  heart  save  with  her  owne  to  blend, 

Nor  ought  at  all  save  what  from  her  I  steal, 
Who  am  not  myself,  soe  much  from  her  I  borrowe 
Whose  long  unkindnesse  worketh  my  great  sorrowe. 


JEAN  DOUBLET 

(        ?        ) 


61 


MESEEMETH  that  soe  manye  shafts  be  notte 
In  the  full  quiver  of  all  England's  front, 

As  Love  the  archer  over  me  hath  shotte 
Unwearied  in  his  hunt. 

Sheltered  amid  the  sacred  maidens  nine 

Whom  he  is  said  to  fear,  still  doth  he  come; 

Beneath  the  waters  of  their  spring  divine 
His  arrowes  still  strike  home. 


88  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

I  goe  my  waye,  but  am  by  him  out-sped ; 

I  fly,  but  never  does  the  hunt  growe  slack. 
Still  in  my  heart  his  cruel  shaft  growes  red, 

Altho'  I  turn  my  back. 


JEAN  PASSERAT 
(1534-1602) 

62.     ODE  FOR  THE  FYRST  OF  MAYE 

QUIT  thy  bed  and  sleepe  of  twilight 

On  this  tyde, 
Nowe  for  us  the  dawn's  red  skylight 

Opens  wyde ; 
Heaven  hath  a  smilynge  face 
Ever  in  this  moone  of  grace; 

Sweete,  draw  nigh! 
Let  us  kindle  love  and  kiss. 
In  this  world  he  lives  a-miss 

That  letteth  love  goe  bye. 


Come  with  me  and  leave  the  rabble ; 

Under  trees 
Let  us  hark  the  shy  birdes  babble 

Melodies ; 
Let  us  listen  to  the  stave 
That  the  nightyngale  soe  suave 

Doth  prolong; 
Ev'n  as  he  doth  with  his  voice 
Banish  sorrowe  and  rejoice; 

Brief  must  be  our  song. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  •• 

Tyme  that  wills  not  we  should  m&Try 

And  be  blithe, 
In  his  flight  our  youth  doth  harry 

With  his  scythe. 
Graye  of  hair,  upon  a  daye 
In  thy  sorrowe  thou  shalt  saye 

' '  Foolish  girl ! 
Howe  hast  thou  with  sad  unthrift 
Squandered  all  thy  beauty's  gift 

On  old  Tyme  the  churl  I  " 

Leave  we  then  our  teares,  and  gather 

Ere  it  fade, 
The  sweet  flower  of  youth  together, 

Man  and  mayde ; 
Heaven  hath  a  smilynge  face 
Ever  in  this  moone  of  grace ; 

Sweete,  draw  nigh ! 
Let  us  kindle  love  and  kiss. 
In  this  world  he  lives  a-miss 

That  letteth  love  goe  bye. 


63.     VILLANELLE 

I  HAVE  lost  my  turtle  fleet: 

Is  that  her  owne  voice  blowne  bye  ? 
After  her  I  fayne  would  beat. 

Dost  thou  sorrowe  for  thy  sweet  ? 

Soe,  alack-a-daye,  do  1 1 
I  have  lost  my  turtle  fleet. 

If  thy  love  hath  constant  heat, 
Soe  my  faith  burns  steadily: 
After  her  I  fayne  would  beat. 


»0  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Doth  thy  mournful  playnte  repeat  ? 

Even  soe  I  heave  my  sighe: 
I  have  lost  my  turtle  fleet. 

Since  noe  more  my  love  I  meet, 

Nothynge  lovely  I  espy: 
After  her  I  fayne  would  beat. 

Death  whom  daily  I  entreat, 

Take  thyne  owne  and  let  me  die : 
I  have  lost  my  turtle  fleet. 
After  her  I  fayne  would  beat. 


64.     ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THULENE  THE  KYNGE  'S 
JESTER 

SIRE,  Thul^ne  is  dead.     I  have  seen  his  grave ; 

Yet  mighte  you  raise  him  from  his  coffin  narrowe; 
Give  to  the  poet  what  to  the  fool  you  gave : 

Poet  and  fool  are  born  of  the  same  marrowe. 
One  flys  ambition  and  the  other  flouts; 

Both  get  poor  worth  for  what  is  in  their  purses ; 
Their  easye  humour  quicklye  smyles  or  pouts ; 

One's  speech  is  heedlesse  as  the  other's  verses. 
One  hath  a  green  head,  and  the  other  goes 

Clad  in  a  prettye  cap  of  greene  and  yellowe ; 
One  synges  you  sonnets  whyle  the  other's  toes 

Move  to  the  sound  of  his  owne  bells,  poor  fellowe. 
In  this  unlike :  Fortune  to  fools  makes  offers. 
But  unto  poets  brynges  but  emptye  coffers. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  91 


VAUQUELIN  DE  LA  FRESNAYE 
(153S-1607) 

65.     SONG 

LOVE  be  mute,  but  take  thyne  arc, 
For  my  wild  and  lovelye  deer, 

In  the  dawn  or  in  the  dark 
PassL*"h  near. 

Here  be  foot-prints.     Lo  I  her  shape. 

To  her  heart  thyne  arrowe  speed. 
Miss  her  not  lest  her  escape 

Mock  thy  deed. 

Woe  is  me  I     'Tis  blynde  thou  art ! 

0  the  cruel  drops  that  draine ! 
Far  she  flies  nor  feels  thy  dart : 

1  am  slaine. 


66 

O  PLEASANT  wynde  whose  balmye  breath  doth  fill 

The  aire  with  perfume  that  these  flowers  doe  freight  I 
O  happye  field  wheron  the  teares  did  spill 

Of  gentle  lovers  when  unfortunate ! 
0  shadye  woode,  0  runnynge  river  swifte 

That  out  of  wretchednesse  saw  joye  aryse, 
Pure  bliss  ensuinge  on  their  long  unthrift. 

And  each  in  other's  perfect  love  growne  wyse. 
Nowe  age  hath  purged  them  of  all  carnal  neede; 

And,  moved  bye  holye  thoughts  to  thrust  behynde 


»a  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

The  love  wheron  their  sinful  soules  did  feede, 

Still  doe  they  feel  their  weaned  hearts  growe  kynde 
When  their  dim  eyes  beholde,  with  waverynge  looke, 
This  wynde,  thys  woode,  this  field,  this  runnynge 

brooke. 


GUILLAUME  DU  BARTAS 

(1544-1590) 

67.     THE  PYRENEES 

FRENCHMAN,  halt  here  awhyle  nor  leave  this  lande 

Where  Nature  a  soe  rockye  wall  doth  rear. 
That  Ariege  cleaves  with  his  impetuous  hande, 

A  countrye  that  in  beautye  hath  no  peer. 
Pilgrym,  'tis  not  a  mountayne  thou  dost  see 

But  a  Briareus  vast  whose  loftye  girth 
Doth  holde  the  pass  against  his  enemie. 

Near  Spaine  from  France,  and  France  from  Spanysh 

earth. 
One  arm  in  France,  the  other  in  Spaine  set. 

As  Atlas  on  his  head  he  hath  like  weighte; 
Within  two  seas  his  separate  feet  are  wet; 

The  forests  dense  are  locks  upon  his  pkte; 
The  rocks  his  bones  are,  and  the  rivers  roarynge 
The  eternal  sweat  of  travail  downward  pourynge. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  98 


PHILIPPE  DESPORTES 
(1546-1606) 

68.     VILLANELLE 

ROSETTE,  because  I  stayed  awaye 

A  little  whyle,  you  wanton  grew, 
And  I  who  knew  how  you  did  swaye, 

Theron  was  fayne  noe  more  of  you. 
Noe  more  such  fickle  lovelinesse 

Shall  holde  me  captive  in  its  net: 
We  soone  shall  see,  light  shepherdesse, 

Which  shall  be  first  to  know  regret. 

Whyle  in  vaine  teares  my  lyf e  I  lose 

And  doe  bemoan  my  lonely  fate. 
You  who  doe  love  by  simple  use, 

Have  fond  arms  for  another  mate; 
Noe  weather-vane  more  swiftly  veers 

Before  the  wind  than  you,  Rosette: 
We  soone  shall  see  whose  love  outwears — 

Which  shall  be  first  to  knowe  regret. 

Where  are  your  holye  promises, 

And  where  are  nowe  your  farewell  woes  ? 
And  could  such  sorrowe-laden  cries 

Come  from  a  heart  that  gaddynge  goes  ? 
Pardiel  but  you're  a  lyinge  lasse. 

And  curst  the  man  whose  trust  you  get  I 
We  soone  shall  see,  light  shepherdesse. 

Which  shall  be  first  to  knowe  regret. 

He  who  doth  tayke  the  sweets  were  myne 
Lacks  wit  to  woe  as  well  as  I, 


94  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  she  I  love  is  far  more  fine 

In  beauty,  love  and  loyaltie. 
Holde  closely  then  your  new-found  swaine; 

This  love  of  myne  is  firmly  set, 
And  then  we  soone  shall  see,  of  twaine, 

Which  shall  be  first  to  knowe  regret. 


69.     OF  A  FOUNTAYNE 

CHILL  is  the  fount  whose  gentle  streame  doth  carrye 

Tidynges  of  love  as  silverly  it  flowes 
Thorough  green  stalkes  that  on  the  brink  doe  tarrye 

Beneath  the  shadowe  that  the  alder  throwes. 
Lithe  boughs  in  the  low  wynde  with  soft  complainynge 

Make  love-lorn  sighes  within  that  cool  retreat; 
Whyle  the  hot  sun,  his  topmost  height  attainynge 

Doth  crack  the  earth  with  his  soe  ardent  heat. 
Pilgrym  that  on  the  hard  high  road  hath  wended, 

Sorely  athirst  beneath  the  beames  that  blaze. 
Here  let  thy  wearinesse  awhyle  be  ended ; 

Here  take  thyne  ease  awhyle  from  dustye  wayes; 
In  the  cool  aire  and  shade  thy  heat  forsakynge 
Where  the  chill  f ountayne  for  thy  thirst  hath  slakynge. 


70.     ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DIANA 

AS  you  maye  see  the  sudden  lightnynge  smite 
A  cloudy  pathwaye  and  wane  out  on  it. 
This  bless6d  soul,  unmarked  of  mortal  wit. 

Hath  left  her  young  heart's  dwellynge  for  the  lighte. 

My  thought  hath  follow 'd,  in  default  of  sighte 
Up  to  heaven's  arches  with  her  presence  lit. 
And  seen  howe  in  the  glowe  where  she  doth  sit 

She  grieveth  for  me  here  in  the  world's  nighte 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  95 

O  Goddesse,  wait  no  more!  the  time  is  come, 
Now  that  thy  dust  is  coffin 'd  and  thy  tomb 

Doth  wear  the  tribute  woven  of  my  love; 
For,  havynge  honoured  thee  with  this  sad  rite, 
Weary  of  teares  and  misery  infinite, 

I  leave  the  earth  and  fly  to  thee  above. 


CATHERINE  DES  ROCHES 

(1550-1587) 

71.     QUATRAIN  ON  ACHILLES 

ACHILLES  chose  a  meaner  task  when  he 
Threw  downe  the  distaff  and  took  up  the  sworde ; 

One  weaves  the  raiment  of  humanitye, 
The  other  slits  the  corde. 


THEODORE-AGRIPPA  D'AUBIGNfe 
(1551-1630) 

72.     SONNET  TO  THE  KYNGE 

SIRE,  your  dogge  Lemon,  once  your  bed-fellowe, 
Nowe  hath  the  bare  ground  for  his  nightly  stead ; 
That  same  true  dogge  that,  by  his  instinct  led. 

Leal  friends  from  traitors  did  soe  rightly  knowe. 

His  voice  it  was  that  frighted  robbers  soe. 
His  teeth  gript  murderers ;  discomforted, 
Why  hath  he  harde  blowes  and  a  beggar's  bed, 

The  wonted  wage  that  royal  kynges  bestowe  ? 


96  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

His  pryde,  his  beauty,  and  his  winsome  youth 
Made  you  to  love  him ;  but  he  had  noe  ruth 

For  your  ill-wishers  whose  bold  steps  he  barr'd. 
Ye  courtiers  proude  beholdynge  haughtilie 
This  outcast  dogge  that  in  the  streets  doth  die, 

On  your  devotion  waits  a  like  rewarde. 


BOOK  III 


TO  KATHERINE  T. 

Puck's  whim  once  made  an  ass  of  man, 
As  swine  he  grunted,  changed  by  Circe; 

And  even  so  translators  can 
Misrender  poets  without  mercy. 

I  have  not  Orpheus'  skill,  but  try 
To  mimic  in  my  tongue  French  singers, 

And  guard  lest  I  should  pull  awry 
Their  harp-strings  with  un-nimble  fingers. 

Here  take  what  I  have  done,  dear  friend, 
My  fairer  Circe,  void  of  malice ; 

And  proffer  me  the  sweets  that  blend 
For  my  translation  in  your  chalice. 

And  may  you  find  my  faults  are  few, 
And  my  toil-gotten  rhymes  well-mated : 

This  book  I  dedicate  to  you 

Who,  in  a  day,  my  life  translated. 


FRANCOIS  DE  MALHERBE 

(1555-1628) 

73.     CONSOLATION  TO  M.  DU  PERIER 

AND  must  thy  grief,  Du  P^rier,  knowe  no  end  ? 

And  the  sad  counselling 
Brought  to  thee  fatherlike  by  thyne  old  friend 

But  make  more  sharp  its  sting  ? 

The  sorrowe  of  thy  daughter  borne  awaye 

By  Death  that  comes  to  all, 
Is  it  a  maze  wherein  thy  mind  doth  straye, 

There  lost  beyond  recall  ? 

I  knowe  what  winning  wayes,  deare  child,  were  hers, 

Nor  ever  would  I  stem 
In  churlish  wise,  the  falling  of  thy  teares 

By  misbeholding  them. 

But  of  this  world  she  was  where  things  most  glad 

Have  ever  hardest  doom  ; 
And  as  a  rose  she  lived  a  daye  who  had 

A  rose's  lovely  bloom. 

And  had  she  lived  as  thou  didst  pray  she  mighte, 

Laden  with  yeares  to  wane 
At  last  with  all  her  gold  hair  turned  to  white. 

What  then  had  been  her  gaine  ? 
99 


100  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Deemst  thou  that  Paradise,  an  she  were  old, 

For  her  ha^  shone  more  faire. 
Or  lighter  laine  on  her  the  chillye  mould 

Or  worms  that  burrowe  there  ? 

No,  no,  deare  friend!  for  Fate  drives  instantlye 

The  soul  from  out  its  ark: 
Age,  in  that  setting  forth  leaves  not  the  quay 

To  followe  the  dim  barque. 

Fate's  most  unfeeling  fingers  ply  the  sheares. 

Vainly  on  her  we  call ; 
Sternly  to  all  our  cries  she  stops  her  eares, 

And  will  not  heed  at  all. 

The  frugal  hind  that  under  thatch  doth  dwell 

Obeys  her  summoning; 
And  at  the  Palace  gate  the  sentinel 

Saves  not  our  Lord  the  Kynge. 

All  murmurs  'gainst  her,  all  despair  or  wrath 

Will  bring  us  no  release ; 
To  yield  unto  God's  will  is  the  one  path 

Can  lead  us  unto  peace. 


74.     ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  SON 

FOR  that  my  son  hath  lost  his  mortal  shrine, 
This  deare,  brave  lad  on  whom  I  did  so  dote, 
I  do  not  saye  that  destiny  mis-wrote. 

Since  at  the  last  must  every  life  decline. 

But  that  two  crafty  rascals  bye  design 

Cut  short  his  dayes  with  their  fell  blades  that  smote,- 
Therein  my  grief  noe  solace  finds  to  quote. 

And  all  my  soule  doth  in  my  grief  repine. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  101 

O  God,  my  Saviour,  since  of  simple  neede 

My  soule's  deep  wound  for  evermore  must  bleede, 

The  vowe  of  vengeance  is  a  righteous  vowe. 
With  thy  strong  arms  upholde  and  strengthen  me; 

Deal  thou  thy  justice  for  their  felon  blowe, 
Sons  of  the  ruffians  who  did  murder  Thee. 


MADEMOISELLE  DE  GOURNAY 
(1566-1645) 

75.     QUATRAIN  ON  A  PICTURE  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC 

'  *  HOW  canst  thou  reconcile,  O  heavenly  mayde, 
Thy  melting  glances  and  thyne  eager  blade  ?  ' ' 
' '  My  soft  eyes  on  my  darling  country  beam ; 
My  sword  doth  smite  her  freedom  to  redeem." 


MATHURIN  REGNIER 
(1573-1613) 

76.     STANZAS 

SINCE  thyne  eye  so  ardently  ashine  with  love's  own 

splendour 
First  within  my  loyal  heart  hath  kindled  all  of  tender, 

Since,  as  tho'  a  saintly  star,  I  worship  at  thy  feet. 

Come,  why  not  love  me.  Sweet  ? 

Since    thy    loveliness    that    erstwhile    renders    thee 

unyielding 
Must,  like  «my  wither'd  flower  under  grass  for  shield- 
ing. 


102  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Shrink    from    savage    tempests    storming    after 

summer's  heat, 
Come,  why  not  love  me.  Sweet  ? 

Wilt  thou  let  thyne  eye  begetting  all  of  love's  warm 

pleasure 
Be  to  thy  sweet  self  no  other  than  a  useless  treasure  ? 

Since  Love  like  a  god  in  every  living  heart  doth  beat. 

Come,  why  not  love  me,  Sweet  ? 

Dost  thou  wait  a  distant  morrowe   for  thy  deare 

regretting  ? 
Thus  thou  wilt  with  fortune's  hazard  tease  my  lorn 

heart's  frettynge. 
Since  in  a  so  mellowe  season  our  two  lives  do  meet. 
Come,  why  not  love  me.  Sweet  ? 

If  thy  beauty  be  so  great^that  there  be  none  com- 
paring. 
Heaven  not  created  it  for  my  poor  heart's  despair- 
ing, 
Since  meseems  it  hath  compassion  when  we  do 

entreat, 
Come,  why  not  love  me,  Sweet  ? 


77.     A  CONFESSION  IN  BRIEF 

SINCE  sev'n  sins  from  these  our  eyes 
Bar  the  gates  of  Paradyse, 

Holy  father,  if  truth's  in  me, 
I'll  abhor  them  everjrwhere. 
An  thou  wilt  but  to  me  spare 

Haste  and  lust  that  so  do  win  me. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  103 

These  in  me  are  Nature's  flaw, 
These  nor  precept,  nay,  nor  law 

Nor  your  nimble  speech  can  alter ; 
And  when  simple  sorrowe  might 
Save  me  from  my  sinful  plight, 

Whim  would  make  my  lips  to  falter. 

I  have  tried  to  foil  them  oft 
With  a  Pater  Noster  soft. 

With  a  Bible  text  to  smother; 
In  the  midst  of  combats  fell, 
Voices  soothe  mine  ire  and  tell 

Howe  kind  Nature  is  their  mother. 

*Tis  not  God  hath  giv'n  me  these 
To  augment  mine  enemies. 

But  a  new  Pandora  sowing 
With  her  own  hand  far  and  wide, 
As  a  bane  for  human  pride. 

This  strange  falsehood  in  me  growing. 

For  no  saint,  howe'er  devout. 
Firm  and  zealous  could  put  out 

Such  a  blaze  of  sinful  fuel ; 
Carmelite,  Celestine  pure 
Never  could  'gainst  such  a  lure, 

Keep  unbroke  a  law  so  cruel. 

Do  thou  then  as  I  have  claimed, 
Soe  that,  firm  and  unashamed, 

I've  a  conscience  clean  within  me. 
As  of  old  the  Saints  were  knowne : 
From  the  sev'n  sins  take  alone 

Haste  and  lust  that  so  do  win  me. 


104  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


78.     HIS  OWN  EPITAPH 

I  LIVED  a  life  was  fancy  free, 
Slowe-drifting  on  contentedly 

Adowne  the  road  my  feet  did  find ; 
And  wherefore  Death  should  think  of  me 
I  cannot  guess,  since  steadily 

I  alwayes  kept  him  out  of  mind. 


FRANCOIS  MAYNARD 

(1582-1642) 

79 

HOWE  faire  a  destiny  'twould  be 
If  after  death  love  still  might  thrive 

And  foUowe  to  the  grave  with  me, 

For  then  with  death  I  would  not  strive. 

But  Death,  I  fear,  when  he  dismembers. 

Will  leave  no  flame  in  Love's  dead  embers. 

Nowe  only  death  I  do  desire 
Since  that  thy  so  unstable  mind 

For  me  hath  quenched  its  fickle  fire. 
The  daye  I  hate  and  all  mankind; 

And,  if  in  life  I  still  am  sighing, 

'Tis  but  to  save  my  love  from  dying. 


80.     EPITAPH 

HERE  lies  a  toper  drank  more  wine 
Than  any  other  man  was  able; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  105 

He  had  no  faith  in  Gods  divine 

Save  him  that  haunts  a  tavern  table. 

He  dropt  into  yon  river's  slime — 
A  clumsy  boatman  caused  the  ripple. 

This  was  the  first  and  only  time 
He  took  plain  water  with  his  tipple. 


THEOPHILE  DE  VIAU 
(1590-1626) 

81.     THE  BOATMEN 

DARLING   little   winged   boys   are   clinging   to   our 

skulls, 
Tritons  in  their  envy  full  of  fondness  swarming 

near; 
Now  the  wind  grows  gentle  and  ^the  surging  billow 

lulls, 
Lapsing  on  a  stilly  tide  wherever  we  may  steer. 

The  wheeling  stars  smile  down  from  heaven  to  help 

us  as  we  go, 
No  storm  can  daunt  our  sailor-lads,  nor  make  their 

cheeks  turn  pale, 
And  never  doth  the  bird  of  calm  nest  smooth  amid 

the  flow 
Without  a  glance  as  he  goes  by  to  bless  the  flapping 

sail. 

Our  Ocean  is  as  gentle  as  the  flood  Euphrates  bears; 
Not  Pactolus  nor  Tagus  with  so  rich  a  wave  can 

bless ; 


106  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Here  never  pilot  dreads  to  meet  with  crafty  buccaneers, 
Nor  knows  such  long  unbroken  calm  as  leads  to 

weariness. 

Here  underneath  a  gentle  sky,  and  far  from  thunder's 

roar, 
The  leisurely  slow  watches  bring  us  nought  but 

smoothest  ease. 
And  here  our  eyes  no  yearning  know  to  greet  again 

the  shore, 
But  pity  the  poor  angel  throng  that  sail  not  on 

such  seas. 

O  you  for  whom  love  sighs  and  sighs,  dear  beauties 

still  unwed. 
Come    share    with    us    the    happiness    that    rides 

where'er  we  go; 
And  we  will  swear  to  all  the  world  that  never  sails 

were  spread 
Above  a  ship  with  such  a  prize  betwixt  her  stern 

and  bow. 


MARC-ANTOINE  DE  SAINT-AMANT 
(1594-1661) 

82.     THE  RISING  SUN 

GODDESS  of  the  rosy  hue 
Holy  unto  Eastern  eyes, 

Rose  of  dawn  that  doth  renew 
Ere  thy  sire  the  Sun  doth  rise. 

Bring  the  daylight  unto  me 

So  that  I  my  love  may  see. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  107 

Sure  the  night  is  overworn ; 

Shrill  the  cocks  sahite  the  sun ;  ^ 
Mount  the  golden  car  of  morn 

Drawn  by  hours  that  swiftly  run, 
Haste  and  come  that  all  may  scan 
How  thou  paintest  heaven's  span. 

Gentle  beam  of  my  desire 

I  behold  thee.     Welcome  here ! 

Heavenly  thy  beauty's  fire 

On  the  cloud  doth  now  appear, 

And  thy  star  with  pallid  light 

Makes  the  Eastern  mountains  bright. 


DENIS  SANGUIN  DE  SAINT-PAVIN 

(1595-1670) 

83.     EPIGRAM 

TIRCIS  makes  rhjrmes  as  fast  as  ticking; 

Mine  with  good  cause  find  slower  birth : 
For  his  will  die  while  still  he's  kicking, 

But  mine  will  live  when  I'm  in  earth. 


108  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

VINCENT  VOITURE 

(1598-1648) 

84.     RONDEAU 

IN  good  plain  French  your  words  devoutly  rise 
More  solemn  than  a  monkey  could  devise; 
Your  soul  aye  finds  so  little  that  doth  please, 
We  well  might  think  our  France  and  all  her  sees 
Turned  round  your  reverend  worship  pivot-wise. 

For  every  matter  you  have  bigot  sighes, 
For  all  our  wickedness  teares  fill  your  eyes; 
You  hide  your  Spanish  heart  in  homilies 

Of  good  plain  French. 

Then  leave  our  State  untroubled  of  your  cries; 

A  worthy  sailor-man  the  rudder  plies : 

For,  if  we  must  speak  frankly  at  our  ease, 
Although  your  mind  is  full  of  subtleties, 

That  you're  a  blockhead  we  all  realize 

In  good  plain  French. 


PIERRE  CORNEILLE 
(1606-1684) 

85.     STANZAS  TO  THE  MARQUISE 

MARQUISE,  if  on  my  face  you  spy 
Some  trace  of  Time's  unsparing  graver, 

Remember  when  as  old  as  I 

You'll  hardly  showe  a  fairer  favour. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS '  109 

For  Time  doth  take  in  ruthless  holde 
The  loveliest  things  that  we  do  cherish ; 

As  he  hath  lined  my  forehead  old, 
So  he  will  make  your  roses  perish. 

The  same  swift  planets  in  their  course 
Draw  on  our  dayes  and  nights  unceasing; 

My  face  was  once  as  fair  as  yours, 

And  yours  must  soon  like  mine  be  creasing. 

Yet  have  I  dazzling  charms  to  fright 
The  stern  aspect  of  Time's  deploying, 

And  give  me  courage  to  despite 

The  onward  march  of  his  destroying. 

Your  charms  by  all  are  worshipped; 

But  those  that  you  esteem  so  lightly 
May  well  endure  when  yours  are  dead, 

And  all  your  beauty  growne  unsightly. 

They  may  bestowe  undying  fame 

On  eyes  that  unto  me  are  dearest, 
And  in  a  thousand  yeares  proclaim 

The  beauty  that  for  me  thou  wearest. 

And  that  new  race  beyond  the  grave 
To  what  I  write  shall  render  credit, 

And  you  shall  have  no  beauty  save 
As  I  alone  have  sung  or  said  it. 

Then  ponder  well,  my  fair  Marquise: 
Though  silvery  hairs  do  so  affright  you. 

Yet  such  as  I  'twere  well  to  please 

Whose  printed  word  may  bless  or  blight  you. 


110  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

PAUL  SCARRON 
(1610-1660) 

86.     HIS  OWN  EPITAPH 

HE  who  underground  doth  slumber 
Few  men  envied,  many  pitied, 

Suffered  deaths  withouten  number 
'  Ere  at  last  this  life  he  quitted. 

Friend,  let  not  your  footsteps  jar  on 
This  his  grave  lest  you  awake  him ; 

For  'tis  the  first  night  poor  Scarron 
Felt  sound  slumber  overtake  him. 


ISAAC  DE  BENSERADE 
(1)612-1691) 

87.     FOR  MADAME 

WHEN  you  beholde  her  graciousness  and  glory, 
The  beauty  of  her  features,  the  splendour  of  her 

birth. 

Like  to  the  goddesses  of  early  Grecian  story 
Would  you  not  take  her  for  Juno  come  to  earth  ? 

When  you  behold  how  all  are  fain  to  serve  her, 
When  in  her  company  how  all  men  have  adored, 

Her  eyes  that  are  shining  with  all  grace  and  loving 

fervour, 
Would  you  not  take  her  for  Venus*  self  restored  ? 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  111 

Pallas  it  is  that  in  her  body  dwelleth 

Masking  all  her  pride  in  her  gentleness  of  soul, 

Never  showing  on  her  brow  the  haughty  frown  that 

quelleth, 
Keeping  her  heart  and  her  noble  spirit  whole. 

Were  Paris  here  to  give  again  his  favour, 

Swift  would  be  his  choosing  now  since  without 

despite, 

She  alone  would  share  the  apple  that  he  gave  her 
With  these  three  goddesses  that  in  her  soul  unite. 


JEAN  DE  LA  FONTAINE 

(1621-1695) 

88.     THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  ANT 

THE  Grasshopper  that  through  the  Summer 

Her  cymbals  beat,  [heat 

Found  her  bare  board  without  a  crumb 

And  the  chill  wynd  of  Winter  come. 

Not  one  tiny  shred  of  fly 

Nor  of  earth-worm  could  she  spy. 

Off  she  went  her  plight  bewailing 

To  the  Ant  beyond  the  railing. 

Begging  food  enough  to  save 

Her  shrivell'd  body  from  the  grave 

Till  the  boughs  again  were  shady. 

"I'll  repay,"  pronounced  my  Lady, 

"  Ere  hot  August  come,  your  loan 

With  the  interest  due  thereon." 

Now  the  Ant  likes  not  to  lend, 

(A  small  fault  wherein  she  strayes), 


112  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

"  How  fared  you  in  your  Summer  dayes  ?  " 

Said  she  to  her  needy  friend. 

"Unto  all,  sun  high  or  setting, 

I  did  sing,  save  your  displeasure." — 

"  Did  you  then  ?     I'm  g'ad  you'd  leisure! 

Well,  now  start  your  pirouetting." 

89.     THE  RAT  WHO  WITHDREW  FROM 
THE  WORLD 

AMONG  Levantine  legends  you  maye  find 

One  of  a  rat  worn  out  with  worldly  strife 
Who  in  the  hollow  of  a  round  Dutch  rind 

Withdrew  to  lead  a  cloistral  life. 
The  solitude  was  audible 
Round  the  deep  arches  of  his  cell. 
The  hermit  made  his  living  in  the  husk. 
Soe  well  he  wrought  with  toe  and  tusk, 

That  soon  within  his  cell's  dark  core 

Was  ample  victualling.     What  would  you  more  ? 
The  rat  grew  s'eek.     (The  Lord  doth  bless  alwayes 
Whom  to  his  saintly  service  vow  their  dayes.) 

One  daye  a  godly  caller  bore, 
As  leading  counsellor  among  the  rats. 

For  some  small  alms  his  government's  behest: 

They  had  decided  on  a  foreign  quest 
To  seek  for  help  against  the  horde  of  cats 
Ratopolis  did  whelm ; 

With  empty  pockets  they  had  left, 

Since  of  all  money  was  bereft 
The  cat-beleaguered  realm. 
They  asked  small  tribute,  counting  that  such  aid 
Would  be  forthcoming  ere  five  suns  should  fade. 

"  My  friends,"  replied  the  lonely  man, 
* '  I  meddle  not  in  sub-celestial  feud : 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  118 

What  can  a  poor  soul  in  its  solitude 
To  help  you  forward  in  your  plan 

But  pray  to  heaven  for  the  help  you  need  ? 
And  may  the  Lord  thereunto  give  full  heed. ' ' 
And,  having  answered  thus,  full  piously 
The  new  saint  shut  his  door  (and  turned  the  key). 
***** 

Whom  do  you  think  that  I  so,  with  craft, 

Show  as  a  niggardly  rat  for  parity  ? 
A  monk  ?     Why  no,  but  a  dervish  daft: 

For  I  take  it  a  monk  is  all  loving  charity. 


90.     THE  DONKEY  LOADED  WITH  RELICS 

SOME  relics  on  a  donkey  being  tied. 

The  beast  imagined  as  he  proudly  strode, 
Men  bowed  unto  himself  and  not  his  load. 
And  thought  their  ' '  Aves  ' '  to  himself  applied. 
Some  one  who  saw  his  error  said  aloud 
' '  Dull  donkey,  do  not  let  your  mind  grow  proud 
With  such  an  idle  whim. 
Incense  and  hymn 
Are  for  the  holy  relics  that  you  carry, 
And  these  alone  deserve  such  adoration." 

Men  bow  not  to  an  ignorant  functionary, 
But  only  to  his  circumstance  and  station. 


91.     THE  OAK  AND  THE  REED 

"  YOU  have  good  cause  to  weep  your  fate," 
Unto  the  slender  reed  the  oak  once  said : 
'  *  A  wren  for  you  must  seem  a  dreadful  weight ; 
The  least  wind  that  doth  spread 


114  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

A  ripple  on  the  stream  in  spate, 

Makes  your  poor  head  grow  pliant. 
Whereas  my  brow  like  to  a  lofty  hill 
Not  only  takes  the  sunbeams  as  they  spill, 

But  to  the  storm's  defiant. 
Winds  that  to  you  are  blasts,  to  me  are  sighs. 

Still,  did  you  spring  where  my  boughs  make  a  shield 
Of  leaves  above  the  field 
You  need  not  know  such  agonies : 

I  would  defend  you  when  the  thunder  pealed. 
But  often  on  the  humid  brink  you  grow 
Of  realms  where  the  winds  blow. 

Nature  to  you  indeed  seems  very  harsh." 
"  Your  pity,"  said  the  poor  reed  of  the  marsh, 
'*  Is  kindly  meant.     But  don't  be  too  soft-hearted. 

To  you  the  winds  bear  a  more  dreadful  spite : 
I  bend,  but  break  not.     So  far  you  have  thwarted 
The  awful  blows  wherewith  they  smite 
Your  stout  trunk  still  unbending.  .  .  . 
But  bide  your  time. ' '  Scarce  had  he  made  an  ending 
When  from  the  horizon  wildly  blown 
The  most  fell  blast  did  speed 
That  ever  yet  the  icy  Pole  did  breed. 
The  tree  stood  steadfast,  while  the  reed  bent  down. 
With  double  effort  then 
The  wind  his  roots  up-tore 
Whose  lofty  head  unto  the  clouds  did  soar 
Whose  feet  were  buried  in  the  dust  of  men. 

92.     THE  ASS  CLOTHED  IN  THE  LION'S  SKIN 

FEAR  fled  before  a  wily  Ass  that  clad 
In  lion's  skin  his  head  and  shoulders; 

Though  little  might  the  creature  had. 
He  frightened  all  beholders. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  115 

An  ear-tip  showing  to  observant  eyes 
Made  plain  the  sham  of  his  disguise; 
And  straightway  Martin  set  him  running. 
But  those  still  blinded  by  his  cunning 
Were  much  amazed  his  lash  should  dare 
Drive  back  the  lion  to  his  lair. 

*  *  «  «  * 

How  many  folks  who  make  a  stir  in  France 
Remind  us  daily  of  the  fabled  Ass : 
Vain  pomp,  alas! 

The  only  witness  of  their  valiance. 


JEAN-BAPTISTE  POQUELIN  DE  MOLIERE 
(1622-1673) 

93.     TO  M.  LE  VAYER  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
HIS  SON 

WEEP  on  Le  Vayer,  make  thine  eyes  an  urn, 
Thou  hast  good  reason  for  thine  Extreme  woe, 
Wisdom  herself  would  let  her  tears  o'er-flowe 

If  her  own  loss  were  such  as  thou  dost  mourn. 

Vainly  with  idle  precept  the  forlorn 

Strive  to  behold  dry-eyed  their  loved  ones  goe ; 
All  Nature  deems  it  but  a  heartless  showe, 

And  eyes  such  crude  barbarity  with  scorn. 

Too  well  we  knowe  no  weeping  can  make  whole 
The  dear  son  whom  too  sudden  Death  did  reap. 
Not  therefore  doth  the  blowe  less  sharply  smite : 
All  men  revered  him  for  his  virtuous  soul. 
Large-hearted,  lofty-minded,  full  of  light, 
And  for  these  things  we  must  for  ever  weep. 


116  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

PHILIPPE  QUINAULT 
(1635-1688) 

94.     THE  SONG  OF  PLUTO 

ALL  men  this  path  must  tread; 
Life  doth  but  lead 

To  Death's  reprieve. 
Thereby  a  hundred  woes  are  thrown  aside ; 
Who  still  would  bide 

But  seeks  the  more  to  grieve. 

Draw  near  the  darkness  of  this  nether  shore; 
The  rest  ye  so  do  crave 
Is  not  for  mortals  save 
Unto  Death's  harbour  ye  be  ferried  o'er. 

All  souls  at  last  have  place  within  this  gloom; 
All  hither  come 
And  hence  pass  out  no  more. 

This  is  the  law  that  bindeth  all  alive; 
The  might  wherewith  ye  strive 
Makes  but  a  vain  eff6rt. 
Say,  wise  is  he 

That  shuns  the  peril  of  this  sea  ? 
It  is  a  storm  to  drive 
The  ship  unto  her  port. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  117 


JEAN  RACINE 
(1639-1699) 

95.  HYMN  TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ROMAN 
BREVIARY 

GREAT  God  at  whose  divine  word  of  command 

The  heavens  did  arise, 
Thou  settest  borders  to  the  seas,  and  spann'd 

With  thine  unmeasured  skies. 

Ev'n  as  the  heavenly  arch  hath  liquid  plains. 

The  earth  hath  streams  that  run 
And  to  the  arid  meadows  bear  their  rains 

In  time  of  parching  sun. 

Lord,  like  the  waters  let  thy  grace  down  fall 

To  heal  us  in  thy  tide, 
That  from  this  day  our  sense  be  no  more  thrall 

To  snares  the  world  doth  hide. 

And  of  thy  faith  send  the  propitious  beams 

Upon  our  eyes  to  burst. 
And  tear  the  mask  from  the  infernal  schemes 

Of  wickedness  accurst. 

Eternal  Father,  Son,  all  wisdom's  source, 

And  Spirit,  God  of  peace. 
That  dost  control  of  Time  th'  inconstant  course. 

Reign  on  and  never  cease. 


118  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

GUILLAUME  AMFRYE,  ABBE  DE 

CHAULIEU 

(1639-1720) 

96.     TO  THE  SOLITUDE  OF  FONTENAY 

'MID  these  hamlets  and  these  woods 

Life  itself  at  last  I  find; 
Here  my  soul  no  longer  broods 

On  my  sorrows  left  behind. 

Fontenay  delightful  where 

My  young  eyes  first  saw  the  sun, 

Soon  unto  my  sires  I'll  fare 
When  the  race  of  life  is  run. 

Muses  who  beside  this  lawn 

Nourished  me  with  kindly  breath, 

Trees  that  saw  my  young  life  dawn 
You  shall  see  it  wane  in  death. 

Yet  'tis  wise  to  breathe  the  air 
In  the  shadow  of  your  boughs 

Tearless,  and  my  soul  prepare 
For  that  dark  and  awful  house, 

Where  of  all  the  trees  that  I 
Set  within  the  grove  to  wave 

There  shall  follow  when  I  die 
Cjrpress  only  to  my  grave. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  11© 

CHARLES  RIVlfeRE  DU  FRESNY 
(1648-1724) 

97.     THE  NEXT  DAYS 

FAIR  Phyllis,  more  niggard  than  coy, 

On  getting  no  gain  by  denying. 
For  twenty  fine  sheep  of  her  boy 

Once  offered  a  kiss  for  his  buying. 

The  next  day  to  bargain  once  more : 

The  shepherd  found  things  in  his  favour, 

Demanding  of  kisses  a  score 

For  every  sheep  that  he  gave  her. 

The  next  day  fair  Phyllis  was  fain. 

And  fearing  her  shepherd's  displeasure, 

In  haste  gave  his  flock  back  again 
For  a  kiss  that  he  paid  her  at  leisure. 

The  next  day  her  passion  so  drave. 

Dog  and  sheep  she'd  have  given  unto  him. 

For  a  kiss  that  for  nothing  he  gave 

To  Lwette  who  had  started  to  woe  him. 


120  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

JEAN-BAPTISTE  ROUSSEAU 
(1670-1741) 

98.     LOVE 

LOVE  comes  not  by  trying, 
Love's  a  jealous  God; 

On  himself  relying, 

Men  must  wait  his  nod. 

All  own  his  prerogative; 

He  alone  doth  lawless  live. 

In  the  frozen  fallows 
Flora's  throne  doth  rise; 

Wind  drives  home  the  swallows, 
And  the  wind's  self  dies: 

Love  alone  when  he  takes  wing 

Turns  not  home  from  wandering. 


FRANCOIS-MARIE  AROUET  DE  VOLTAIRE 
(1694-1778) 

99.     TO  MADAME  LULLIN 

AND  doth  my  aged  Muse  forlorn 
Surprise  you  that  she  still  is  able. 

Though  eighty  winters  she  hath  borne, 
To  quaver  lines  of  ode  or  fable  ? 

Sometimes  a  plot  of  green  will  spring 
In  wintry  fields  the  frost  makes  hoary, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  121 

Spared  but  a  while  as  comforting 
The  summer  season's  faded  glory. 

A  bird  may  warble  an  he  will, 

With  all  his  brave  days  left  behind  him, 

But  in  his  song  shall  sound  no  thrill 
Of  tender  love  that  once  did  bind  him. 

*Tis  thus  I  touch  the  worn-out  strings 
That  foil  these  fingers  once  untiring, 

'Tis  thus  I  try  this  voice  that  sings 
E'en  though  the  singer  be  expiring. 

**  I  would  in  death's  farewell,  my  Queen," 

(Tibullus  to  his  mistress  sighing), 
"  Fix  mine  eyes  on  thine  own,  and  e'en 

Would  clasp  thee  with  the  hand  that's  dying." 

But  when  we  feel  life  ebb  apace, 

The  soul  borne  on  beyond  retrieving. 

Then  have  we  eyes  for  Delia's  face, 
Or  hands  to  fondle  her  we're  leaving  ? 

Man  must  forget  in  such  a  plight 

The  deeds  that  in  his  haleness  please  him; 

And  when  was  ever  mortal  wight 

Content  to  feel  Death's  fingers  seize  him  ? 

And  even  Delia,  when  in  turn 

She  lies  with  endless  night  around  her, 

Forgets  the  beauty  made  men  yearn. 

And  love  that  all  through  life  enwound  her. 

Birth,  life,  and  death  are  ours,  sweetheart. 
And  none  doth  know  how  he  came  hither.  . 

Each  out  of  nothingness  doth  start; 

Where  doth  he  go  ?  .  .  .  God  knoweth  whither. 


122  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


100.     TO  M.  GRETRY 

YOUR  songs  Paris  honoured  of  late, 
The  Court  has  rewarded  with  jeers. 

Alas!  that  the  ears  of  the  great 
Are  so  often  such  very  great  ears. 


loi.     FOR  A  STATUE  OF  LOVE 

WHOE'ER  you  are,  you  here  your  master  see: 
He  is,  or  was,  or  very  soon  shall  be. 


102.     ON  JEAN  FRERON 

THE  other  day  while  in  the  dale  our  friend  did  fare  on 
A   hidden   serpent    chanced   to    sting   poor   Johnny 

Fr^ron. 
And  then  what  think  you  followed  on  this  evil  spiting? 
The  serpent  burst  in  agony  and  died  of  biting ! 


PONCE-DENIS  ECOUCHARD  LEBRUN 

(1729-1807) 

103.  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  A  POOR  POET  AND 
THE  AUTHOR 

I  HAVE  just  been  robbed  of  papers! — I  am  sorry  for 

your  grief. 
Yes,  of  all  my  hand-writ  verses! — O!  I'm  sorry  for 

the  thief. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  12» 


JEAN-FRANCOIS  DUCIS 

(1733-1816) 

104.     TO  MY  BROOK 

BROOK  little  known  whose  waters  run 

Along  a  wild  and  hidden  bed, 
Like  thee  the  busy  world  I  shun 

And  love  the  wilderness  instead. 

Brook  in  forgetfulness  now  drown 
The  sorrows  of  my  past  forlorn, 

And  leave  within  my  soul  alone 
The  peace  that  on  thy  tide  is  borne. 

Thy  banks  are  dear  to  lilies  pale 

And  to  the  lowly  marguerite; 
And  by  thy  stream  the  nightingale 

Doth  warble  out  his  passion  sweet. 

And  nigh  thee  from  the  soul  in  peace 

Doth  fall  the  burden  of  its  sin; 
Thou  all  its  sorrow  dost  release 
With  murmurs  of  thy  tuneful  lin. 

When  may  I  in  drear  autumn  days 
Along  the  course  of  thy  clear  stream 

Hear  the  soft  sound  of  shaken  sprays 
Or  the  lone  lapwing's  plaintive  scream  ? 

Ah !  how  I  love  this  ancient  shrine. 

These  walls  whereon  the  flames  have  fed, 

These  pious  bells  that  still  repine 
With  wistful  music  overhead  1 


1*4  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Now  on  the  road  a  mother  heeds 
Their  summoning,  far  wandered; 

Her  little  daughter  whom  she  leads 

Says  "  Amen  !  "  as  she  bows  her  head. 

Where  dwelt  a  vestal  sisterhood 
Once  saw  I  cloister'd  rivers  run 

That  poured  their  solitary  flood 
By  altars  of  the  Holy  One. 

Their  crystal  waters  wandered 

By  arch  and  plinth  in  mystic  wise 

Where  these  fair  angel-girls  did  tread 
The  blessed  fields  of  Paradise. 

My  humble  brook  thy  stream  in  flight — 
So  short  a  life  is  ours  below — 

Reminds  me,  thine  own  eremite, 

How  Time's  swift  stream  doth  ever  flow. 


EVARISTE  DE  PARNY 

(1754-1801) 

105.     ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  GIRL 

SHE  was  a  childe  or  hardly  more ; 
She  smiled  like  Innocence  and  wore 

The  light  on  Love's  own  face  aglow. 
Few  were  the  moons — the  suns  in  sooth 

Ere  her  unsullied  heart  would  know 
His  fondness  break  the  seal  of  youth. 

But  Heaven  unto  Death  did  doom 

The  beauty  of  her  early  bloom. 
Then  unto  Heaven  did  she  yield 
Her  life,  and  soft  her  eyelids  sealed 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  125 

Without  a  sound  of  murmuring  heard: 
Just  as  a  smile  wanes  out  at  will, 
Or  bird's  song  from  a  drowsy  bill 

That  leaves  the  woodland  boughs  unstirred. 


ANDR6  CHENIER 
(1762-1794) 

106.     A  YOUNG  MAN 

I  WAS  a  mite  when  she  was  tall  and  fair; 
She  smiled  on  me  and  bid  me  nigh  her  chair. 
Perched  on  her  lap  my  childish  hand  would  glide 
Over  her  hair,  her  face,  her  bosom's  pride, 
While  her  hand  sometimes,  fondling  and  forbearing, 
Would  feign  to  chide  me  for  its  wanton  faring. 
And  she  was  kindest  when  before  her  bowed 
Poor  hapless  suitors  whom  her  beauty  cowed. 
How  oft  (alasl  that  childhood  knows  no  thrill) 
Her  kisses  on  my  baby  cheek  she'd  spill  I 
While  her  foil'd  lovers  whispered  at  the  sight, 
' '  What  treasure  wasted  I  O  too  happy  mite  1 ' ' 


107.     TO  CHROMIS 

COME,  young  Chromis,  I  love  thee,  and  I  am  lovely. 

Pale  as  Dian,  and  light  as  her  heart  is  minel 
Who  am  tall  and  proud  as  the  Goddess.     The  shep- 
herds wonder 
When  I  go  by  them  at  twilight  with  downcast  eyne. 
Whether  indeed  I  am  made  in  the  fashion  of  mortals, 
And  gazing,  they  whisper  together,  ' '  What  beauty 

divine  I ' ' 


126  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


io8.     CLYTIE 


MY  Man6s  to  Clytie  are  crying,  "  Farewell,  fair  onel 
Is  it  thou  whose  footsteps  here  thro'  the  grass  have 

run  ? 
Speak,  is  it  thou,  0  Clytie  ?  or  must  I  stay 
To  wait  thee  still  ?     An  thou  comest  not  every  day 
To  muse  a  little  on  hours  when  I  did  thy  will, 
To  hold  sweet  parley,  behold  this  shadow  that  still 
Doth  love  thee,  ah !  then  shall  my  lone  heart  wearily 

heave 
Within  the  Elysian  calm  and  my  dead  bones  grieve 
Under  the  burdening  ground.     When  the  dawn  winds 

run 
Over  thy  mouth  and  thy  bosom,  beloved  one, 
Weep,  it  is  I  thy  lover  whose  soul  hath  fled 
Far  from  his  hallow 'd  dwelling  among  the  dead. 
Who  on  thy  mouth,  0  dear  one,  alone  would  live. 
01  weep,  and  with  fond  arms  open,  thy  kisses  give!" 


109.     THE  FLUTE 

WHEN  I  remember  I  am  nigh  to  weep: 

How  he  would  hold  the  flute  unto  my  lip, 

And,  smiling,  set  me  level  with  his  heart, 

Swearing  I  beat  him  at  his  own  smooth  art. 

'Twas  he  who  taught  my  faltering  lip  to  draw 

Sweet  breath  unbrokenly  and  without  flaw 

Of  suavest  melody;  my  hands  unskilled 

By  his  deft  hands  over  the  stops  were  drilled; 

'Twas  thus  I  learnt,  though  still  with  blundering  heed, 

To  close  the  gaps  upon  the  sounding  reed. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  127 


no.     THE  NYMPH  ASLEEP 

I  KNOW  when  noon  drives  shadowward  their  feet 
With  silent  tread  to  find  their  cool  retreat, 
Where  thro'  the  cresses  and  the  pebbled  ooze 
The  roaming  Naiad  a  random  path  doth  choose. 
I  gaze  my  fill  upon  the  pale  nymph  shown 
With  bare  limbs  lissom  on  the  green  bank  prone, 
Who  droops  on  to  her  hand,  by  lulling  streams 
Her  reed-encircled  forehead  while  she  dreams. 


III.     THE  HEIFER 

OLD  herder's  daughter,  thou  whose  hands  are  skilled 
To  draw  the  teat  till  thirty  bowls  be  filled, 
Ware  the  red  heifer  with  the  sullen  gaze 
That  goes  companionless  apart  to  graze. 
Free,  she  will  break  away,  untamed  and  fleet. 
Not  thro'  thy  fingers  shalt  thou  draw  her  teat, 
Unless  thou  hoist  with  skill  a  sleek  limb  bent 
And  hold  it  slung  until  her  store  be  spent. 

112.     THE  YOUNG  CAPTIVE 

' '  THE  sickle  spares  the  springing  corn. 
The  sapling  vine-stems  drink  unshorn 

All  summer  through  dawn's  dewy  boon' 
And  I,  as  young  and  fair,  am  fain 
Though  now  my  cup  be  hard  to  drain. 

To  hide  from  Death  that  calls  too  soon. 

"  Let  Stoics  meet  him  unaghast; 
I  weep.     Before  the  northern  blast 
I  bow  my  head  and  lift  again. 


128  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Sad  days  are  nought  beside  the  sweet. 
What  pathway  never  foiled  the  feet  ? 
What  sea  but  hath  its  hurricane  ? 

"  Within  my  bosom  Hope  doth  breed, 
And  prison-bars  stay  not  the  speed 

Of  his  wide  wings  that  will  not  fold ; 
Scaped  from  the  fowler's  snare  he  flies 
My  blithe  sweet  bird  o'er  the  wide  skies, 

And  sings  with  heart  too  full  to  hold. 

"  Is  death  for  me  ?     With  hope  unquelled 
I  breathe,  awake  or  slumber-held, 

Free  from  remorse  for  evil  done. 
And  with  each  dawn  in  this  dark  place 
All  eyes  speak  welcome  for  the  face 

Makes  glad  the  heart  of  every  one. 

' '  Of  milestones  on  my  destined  road 
Scarce  have  I  counted  one,  or  strode 

Beyond  the  trees  about  my  home. 
Scarce  have  I  yet  or  broken  bread 
At  the  rich  board  that  life  doth  spread. 

Or  sipped  the  full  cup  still  afoam. 

"  My  life's  at  Spring.     I  would  behold 
The  harvest  yield,  and,  onward  rolled. 

Would  like  the  sun  bear  high  my  crown. 
Fair  on  my  stem  the  garden's  queen. 
The  dawn-light  my  young  eyes  have  seen 

And  yearn  to  see  the  sun  go  down. 

' '  Death  thou  mayst  wait.     Go !  get  thee  hence. 
Heal  thou  the  wounds  of  shame's  offence 
In  hearts  whereon  despair  doth  brood. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  129 

For  me  Pan  lurks,  and  sweet  Desire 
Hath  kisses  and  the  Muses  quire. 
I  will  not  die  in  Maidenhood." 

Thus,  sad  and  captive,  as  she  spoke 
My  lyre  was  stirred  and  silence  broke, 

In  pity  with  her  moaning  blent. 
And,  shaking  off  my  load  of  care, 
I  caught  the  song  in  rhyme's  soft  snare, 

From  her  sweet  lips  and  innocent. 

And  thus  these  rhymes  in  prison  twined 
May  tempt  some  soul  of  studious  mind 

To  seek  the  lady  who  thus  woo'd. 
So  fair  the  face  and  words  that  pled 
That  unto  all  were  death  most  dread 

Within  her  gracious  neighbourhood. 


MARIE-JOSEPH  CHENIER 
(1764-1811) 

113.     HYMN 

SOURCE  of  all  truth,  blasphemed  by  every  liar, 

Eternal  guardian  of  all  souls  alive, 
Freedom's  own  God,  of  Nature  the  one  sire 

In  whom  all  live  and  thrive ; 

Thou  hast  set  the  world's  base  under  seas  unsounded. 
Thine  arm  hurls  wide  or  thunder-bolt  or  wind; 

Thou  shinest  in  the  sun  whose  rays  unbounded 
Give  strength  to  humankind  1 


130  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Thy  shrines  are  found  in  the  unfurrowed  prairies, 

In  cities  opulent,  in  desert  caves. 
In  lowly  valleys  and  in  mountain  aeries, 

In  sky  and  under  waves. 

But  for  thy  glory  there  is  consecrated 
A  shrine  more  noble  than  the  azure  air 

In  upright  hearts  where  burneth  unabated 
The  incense  of  pure  pray'r! 


ANTOINE-VINCENT  ARNAULT 

(1766-1834) 

114.     THE  DEAD  LEAF 

WAIF  in  the  wind,  O  where 

So  swiftly  dost  thou  speed  ? 

"  I  nothing  know  nor  heed 
Since  thunder  toppled  sheer 

The  oak-tree  whence  I  hung. 
South  wind  or  northern  blast. 

Soft-voiced  or  shrill  of  tongue. 
Do  drive  me  onward  fast 
Who  feel  nor  grief  nor  fear: 

By  wood  or  valley  low. 
By  field  or  mountain  height, 
I  pass  from  mortal  sight 

Where  rose  and  laurel  go. ' ' 


BOOK  IV 


TO 
A.  G.  SHIELL 


PIERRE-JEAN  DE  BERANGER 

(1780-1857) 

115.     THE  SWALLOWS 

ON  the  Moorish  coast,  chain-tethered, 

Thus  a  captive  soldier  spoke : 
' '  I  behold  you,  shining  feathered 

Hosts  that  fly  from  Winter's  yoke. 
You  whom  Hope,  O!  happy  swallows 

Leaving  France  on  truant  wing, 
On  your  sunward  journey  follows. 

What  home-tidings  do  you  bring  ? 

' '  Three  long  years  have  passed  since  dumbly 

I  implored  some  token  gleaned 
From  the  valley  where  I  humbly 

Dreamt  of  bliss  the  future  screened. 
Where  the  limpid  stream  runs  looping 

Round  the  lilac-scented  garth, 
Have  you  glimpsed  my  cot,  and  swooping 

Gathered  tidings  of  my  hearth  ? 

* '  One  of  you  perchance  did  quicken 

Under  thatch  where  I  was  born ; 
Of  the  mother  sorely  stricken 

You  have  wept  the  love  forlorn. 
Prone  in  death  she  hears  my  coming. 

Grieving  for  the  laggard  beat 
Of  my  footsteps  slowly  homing: 

Do  you  bear  love-tiding  sweet  ? 
188 


184  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

"  Is  my  sister's  wedding  over  ? 

Have  you  seen  the  merry  throng 
Toasting  bride  and  toasting  lover 

To  the  sound  of  happy  song  ? 
And  the  brave  lads  once  v/ent  leaping 

Into  battle,  do  they  see 
Home  again — or  are  they  sleeping  ? 

Have  you  nev^rs  of  friends  for  me  ? 

**  Over  their  slain  bodies  striding 

The  despoiling  stranger  may 
In  my  home  as  master  biding 

Seek  my  sister  to  betray. 
There  no  more  a  mother  praying, 

Here  the  heavy  chains  that  cling — 
Swallows  from  my  homeland  straying, 

Sorrow's  burden  do  you  bring  ?" 


ii6.     VILE  SPRING! 

I  SAW  her  at  her  window  set. 

Myself  at  mine  all  winter  through; 
And  well  we  loved  who'd  never  met, 

Our  kisses  crossed  the  avenue. 
Between  the  lindens  bare  of  green 

The  sight  of  her  made  all  seem  gay ; 
But  now  you've  made  the  boughs  a  screen, 

Vile  Spring!     Why  can't  you  keep  away  ? 

Their  leafy  arches  serve  to  ban 
For  me  that  lovely  seraph  bright 

I  first  saw  feed  her  feathered  clan 

One  morning  when  the  frost  was  white ; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  135 

They  summoned  her  with  songs  that  so 

Became  the  cue  for  Cupid's  play: 
There's  nothing  lovelier  than  snow! 

Vile  Spring!     Why  can't  you  keep  away  ? 

When  she  awakes  you  are  the  cause 

I  cannot  see  her  leave  her  bed 
As  fresh  as  when  Aurora  draws 

The  rosy  curtains  overhead. 
Now  too  at  night  I'm  left  in  doubt 

What  time  my  fair  star  hides  her  ray, 
And  when  she  blows  her  candle  out: 

Vile  Spring  1     Why  can't  you  keep  away  ? 

Tis  Winter  that  I'm  pining  for: 

Ah  I  what  I  'd  give  to  hear  again 
The  sound  of  pelting  snows  that  pour 

In  music  on  the  window-pane. 
What  good  are  all  your  flowers  to  me, 

Your  zephyrs  and  your  suns  of  May, 
When  her  sweet  smile  I  cannot  see  ? 

Vile  Spring!     Why  can't  you  keep  away  ? 


MARCELINE  DESBORDES-VALMORE 

(1786-1859) 

117.     THE  ROSES  OF  SAADI 

THIS  morning  I  had  roses  for  thee  found. 
But  I  did  hold  them  in  my  girdle  bound 
So  tightly  that  they  tumbled  to  the  ground. 


186  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

The  bonds  were  broken,  and  the  swift  wind  bore 
Thy  gathered  roses  to  the  sea-brimmed  shore 
Over  the  water  to  return  no  more. 

The  waves  seemed  red  and  flaming  where  they  went. 

This  eve  my  raiment  is  still  redolent: 

Breathe  on  my  bosom,  love,  their  odours  blent. 


ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE 

(1790-1869) 

118.     THE  LAKE 

THUS  ever  drawn  toward  far  shores  uncharted, 

Into  eternal  darkness  borne  away, 
May  we  not  ever  on  Time's  sea,  unthwarted. 

Cast  anchor  for  a  day  ? 

0  lake !     Now  hardly  by  a  year  grown  older. 
And  nigh  the  well-known  waves  her  eyes  should 

Behold!    I  sit  alone  on  this  same  boulder  [greet, 
Thou  knewest  for  her  seat. 

Thus  didst  thou  murmur  in  thy  rocky  haven. 
Thus  didst  thou  shatter  on  its  stony  breast ; 

Thus  fell  the  wind-flung  foam  on  sands  engraven 
Where  her  dear  feet  had  prest. 

One  eve — rememberest  thou  ? — in  silence  drifting, 
'Twixt  deep  and  sky  no  sound  had  echo  save 

Afar  the  rowers  dipping  oars  and  lifting 
Over  thy  waters  suave. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  137 

When  all  at  once  a  voice  that  made  earth  wonder 
From  the  charmed  shore  drove  all  the  echoes  wide, 

And  rapt  the  wave,  not  fain  as  I  nor  fonder, 
And  with  sweet  words  did  chide : 

' '  Stay  thou  thy  flight,  0  Time !  and  happy  hours 

Trail  by  with  laggard  feet ! 
Let  all  the  savour  of  your  delight  be  ours 

Of  all  our  days  most  sweet! 

"  Too  many  grieving  souls  to  thee  are  praying; 

Nay,  leave  not  these  immune ; 
Bear  off  with  thee  their  sorrows  undelaying; 

Leave  happy  souls  their  boon. 

"  Nay,  but  in  vain  I  ask  one  gracious  hour; 

Time  flies  and  will  not  hark. 
I  bid  the  night  abide  and  dawn  doth  shower 

His  splendour  down  the  deU-k. 

"  Ah!  let  us  love,  my  Love,  for  Time  is  heartless. 

Be  happy  while  you  may ! 
Man  hath  no  Heaven  and  Time's  coast  is  chartless. 

He  speeds;  we  pass  away!" 

Churl  Time,  and  can  it  be  sweet  moments  cherished, 
Wherein  love  fills  our  lives  with  teeming  bliss. 

Speed  far  away  and  be  as  swiftly  perished 
As  days  when  sorrow  is  ? 

Nay!     Ere  we  go  may  we  not  leave  sure  traces  ? 

Nay!     Passed  for  ever  ?     Beyond  all  reprieve  ? 
What  Time  bestows  on  us,  what  Time  effaces 

He  nevermore  shall  give  ? 


138  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

0 !  everlasting  night,  deep  pit  unsounded, 
What  dost  thou  with  engulph^d  days  untold  ? 

Speak!     Wilt  thou  yield  us  back  the  bliss  unbounded 
Once  ravished  from  our  hold  ? 

O !  lake,  mute  rocks,  caves,  leafy  woodland  shading. 
You  whom  Time  spares  or  clothes  with  newer  sheen. 

Keep  of  this  night,  fair  Nature,  keep  unfading 
The  memory  ever  green ! 

In  all  thy  calms  and  all  thy  tempests  blending, 
Fair  lake,  and  in  thy  forelands*  smiling  fronts. 

In  thy  dark  pines  and  thy  wild  cliffs  impending 
Over  thy  crystal  fonts, 

In  the  winds  passing,  with  a  trembling  lightness, 
Heard  in  the  echoes  that  thy  shores  throw  far, 

Seen  in  the  beams  that  fall  with  sheeny  whiteness 
Wave-borne  from  the  clear  star ! 

Let  moaning  breezes  thro'  the  rushes  gliding, 
All  perfume  stirring  thy  sweet  air  above. 

All  seen  or  heard  or  breathed  bear  this  tiding, 
* '  Hereby  they  once  did  love ! '  * 


119.     THE  BUTTERFLY 

COMING  with  the  daffodils  and  dying  with  the  roses, 
Wafted  by  the  zephyr's  wing  athwart  the  spaces 

high, 
Lurking  in  the  flower's  bloom  or  e'er  its  breast  un- 
closes, 
Reeling  with  sweet  draughts  of  scent,  and  light, 

and  deep  blue  sky; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  139 

Shaking  wide  its  dusty  wings  and  like  the  breezes 

breasting 
Burdenless  and  innocent  the  sky's  eternal  steep: — 
Thus  doth  fare  the  butterfly  like  hope  that  never 

resting, 
Rifles  all  but  cannot  quench  desire  that  ever  questing, 
Bears  it  home  to  heaven  again  for  lasting  joy  and 

deep. 

120.     MEMORY  AND  HOPE 

I  REBEHOLD  you,  0  belov6d  Dead 
About  these  doors  and  windows  gathered ; 

With  hands  held  out  your  own  I  seem  to  seize, 
As  water  to  the  eye  shows  mirrored  faces 
That  lean  to  meet  our  own  in  fond  embraces 

Till  on  love-kindled  lips  our  kisses  freeze. 

0 1  Thou  who  madest  memory,  must  it  be 

For  nought  at  all  ?  .  .  .  Nay,  we  must  render  Thee, 

When  life  is  over  in  one  stream  to  pour 
What  hath  gone  past  and  what  is  beyond  knowing, 
The  two  halves  of  our  life  together  flowing, 

This  saying  "  Never,"  and  that  "  For  evermore." 

Shall  not  this  bygone  Eden  that  we  knew 
In  our  Eternal  Life  have  shape  and  hue  ? 

For  where  Time  is  not  shall  not  all  Time  be  ? 
In  that  calm  breast  whereto  our  souls  are  cleaving 
Shall  we  not  find  our  loved  ones  beyond  grieving 

About  the  hearth-stone  of  Eternity  ? 


140  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


121.     THE  WEST 

THE  sea  grew  silent  like  a  seething  bowl 

That  falls  as  the  flame  dwindles ;  backward  led 

Her  waves  still  fuming  in  their  wrath  did  roll 
As  seeking  sleep  in  her  unfathomed  bed; 

And  the  spent  sun-star  in  his  cloudy  race 
Stayed  on  the  waves  a  ray  less  orb  that  sank, 

Then  plunged  one  half  of  his  ensanguined  face, 
A  flaming  ship  that  the  horizon  drank; 

Half  heaven  grew  wan,  and  swooned  away  the  wind 
On  the  limp  canvas,  still  and  mute ;  the  host 

Of  shadows  fell,  and  under  their  gray  blind 
Both  sky  and  water  were  together  lost; 

And  in  my  soul  that  waned  as  the  day  slept 

The  sounds  of  earthly  commerce  no  more  stirred; 

And  something  in  me  as  in  Nature  wept 
In  grief  and  hope  and  gratitude  unheard. 

And  on  the  west  a  sudden  door  flung  wide 

Poured  floods  of  light  that  surged  upon  the  gaze ; 

The  empurpled  sky  was  like  a  tent  to  hide 

A  hearthstone  burning  with  unmeasured  rays ; 

Clouds,  winds,  and  waters  to  the  blazing  arc 
Seemed  all  to  haste  as  though  a  final  doom 

Should  fall  on  all  things  with  the  falling  dark. 
And  Nature  perish  in  a  world  of  gloom. 

Thereto  the  dust  of  evening  was  fanned. 
Thereto  the  white  spray  of  the  waters  set ; 

And  long  and  sad,  unconsciously  I  scanned 
The  light  they  followed,  with  wide  eyelids  wet. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  141 

Till  all  was  hidden ;  like  an  empty  cup 
My  soul  was  even  as  the  horizon  hid; 

But  lo !  in  me  a  sudden  thought  rose  up 
As  on  the  desert  a  lone  pyramid: 

0  light!  where  goest  thou  ?     O  flameless  sphere! 

O  clouds,  winds,  waters,  whither  do  you  race  ? 
Dust,  foam,  and  night;  you  eyes;  thou  soul,  speak 

clear ! 

Where  is  the  goal  to  which  you  speed  apace  ? 

To  Thee,  Great  All,  of  whom  the  sun's  a  ray, 
In  whom  Night,  Day,  and  the  deep  Spirit  sink. 

To  whose  divine  impulsion  all  things  sway. 
Vast  sea  of  Being  that  all  life  doth  drink ! 


EMILE  DESCHAMPS 

(1791-1871) 

122.     DO  NOT  BELIEVE 

LADY,  they  will  tell  you,  "  You  are  foolish  to  believe 

him! 
Why  then  will  you  suffer  more  than  he  for  all  his 

grief  ? 
A  poet,  all  his  sorrow  fades  away  as  words  relieve  him ; 
His  sighs  are  spent  in  cadences,  he  sings  for  his 

relief. 

"  You  leave  him  and  he  languishes,  he  dies  .  .  .  until 

to-morrow. 
And  then  with  his  belov6d  art  rebuilds  the  world 

aright. 


142  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

He  finds  in  your  dear  absence  an  excuse  for  mimic 

sorrow, 
And  drives  away  dark  sorrow's  self  by  singing  of 

his  plight." 

Yes,  that  is  what  they'll  tell  you,  happy  in  their  dis- 

esteeming 
The  arts  they  do  not  understand,  the  friendship 

they  deny. 
But  you, — will   you   believe   them   in   their   pitiless 

blaspheming 
That  will  not  grant  a  groat  of  worth  to  writers 

such  as  I  ? 

Ah,  no  !    it  is  not  sorrow  that  gives  music  to  the 

poet; 
But  for  the  scent  of  roses  and  the  charm  of  smiles 

he  sings; 
For  when  my  heart  cries  out,  alas!  I  have  no  speech 

to  show  it. 
But  weep  above  my  idle  lute  and  loosen  all  the 

strings. 


123.     THE  UNKNOWN 

I  SAW  in  dream  a  fair  unknown 
More  gentle  than  a  sleeping  child. 

With  sudden  laughter  lightly  blown, 
A  fay  with  golden  locks  and  wild. 

'Mid  daughters  of  the  earth  she  flew 
With  Ariel  for  her  kindred  sprite, 
And  bore  us  news  of  heaven's  delight 

I  saw  you,  and  my  dream  was  true ! 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  143 

I  heard  in  dream  a  seraph  fair 

Sweet-singing  on  our  human  way ; 
And  I,  of  some  strange  charm  aware, 

Stretched  out  my  hands  from  far  away; 
And  like  the  tides  that  swell  the  sea 

I  felt  my  full  heart  overbrim  .  .  . 

And  all  my  life  in  tears  grow  dim  .  .  . 

It  is  a  dream  no  more  to  me  I 

I  dreamed ;  to  me  so  dark  the  day 
The  hours  of  sleep  are  boon  and  dear, 

And  my  deep  sorrow  to  allay 

One  night  the  holy  child  drew  near, 

Ah !  then  to  what  must  I  give  heed  i 
I  heard  her  trembling  voice  above, 
" Nay  de£ir,  thou  must  not  die  for  love." 

Alas !  it  was  a  dream  indeed ! 


ALFRED  DE  VIGNY 
(1797-1863) 

124.     THE  SNOW 

WHEN  barren  boughs  above  us  wave, 
And  snow  lies  deep  above  the  mire; 

When  all  the  earth  is  stone  to  grave. 
And  lonely  poplars  upward  spire ; 

When,  snow  on  wing,  the  rook  doth  rock, 
Hard-frozen  on  his  lofty  perch. 

As  stilly  as  the  weather-cock 
Upon  the  steeple  of  the  church ; 


144  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Ah !  then  how  sweet  to  hear  the  brave 
Old  stories  of  the  days  of  yore. 

When  barren  boughs  above  us  wave, 
And  snow  lies  deep,  and  earth  lies  frore. 


125.     THE  SHEPHERD'S  HUT 

If  thy  heart,  groaning  under  life's  rude  burden, 
Writhe  in  its  faring  like  an  eagle  hurt 

Trailing  a  weary  way  with  proud  wing  shattered. 
Under  a  doom  of  grievous  pain  inert; 

If  it  but  beat  when  its  red  tide  is  streaming. 

If  there  be  hidden  from  all  sight  or  seeming 
Love's  light  that  once  for  it  the  horizon  girt; 

If  thy  soul,  shackled  as  my  own  sad  soul  is, 
By  fetters  and  long  bitter  fare  fordone. 

On  the  bare  galley  let  the  oar  lie  nerveless. 
Lean  wanly  o'er  the  wave  and  weep  alone; 

If  o'er  the  tide  to  unknown  havens  steering, 

At  thy  bare  shoulder's  sight  thou  shudder,  fearing 
The  brand  of  felony  clear-scarred  thereon; 

And  if  thy  body  stirred  by  secret  passion. 
Shy  and  aloof  be  dreadful  of  man's  gaze; 

If  with  thy  beauty  thou  wouldst  dwell  serenely 
Withdrawn  unsullied  from  the  world's  foul  ways; 

If  thy  speech  wither  in  the  wind  of  slander, 

If  thy  brow  redden  lest  thy  fair  thought  wander 
In  some  lewd  mind  that,  seeing  and  hearing,  slays; 

Then  get  thee  hence,  leave  all  the  towns  behind  thee, 
Nor  halt  on  ways  that  soil  the  feet  that  fare ; 

From  thought's  high  pinnacle  behold  our  cities 
Man's  bane,  foredoomed  to  endless  serfage  there; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  146 

With  fields  and  forests  for  thy  sacred  homing 
Free  as  the  sea  round  darkened  islands  foaming, 
Cross  the  sweet  fields,  flow'r-laden,  without  care. 

Nature  awaits  thee  in  her  solemn  silence, 
And  round  thy  feet  the  lawny  mists  exhale, 

As  far  away  the  sun's  last  sigh  sets  swaying 
The  lovely  lilies  like  swung  censers  frail; 

The  forest  aisles  grow  dim;  on  waters  dimmar 

The  willow  sets  unsullied  leaves  a-shimmer 
And  the  far  mountain  hides  in  evening's  veil. 

The  friendly  dusk  now  slumbers  in  the  valley, 
On  the  green  herbage  and  the  golden  lawn. 

Below  shy  rushes  where  hid  founts  are  welling, 
Below  the  dreamy  woodland  far  withdrawn; 

It  flies,  and  furtive  thro'  the  wild  vine  shivers; 

It  throws  a  grey  shroud  o'er  the  steamy  rivers, 
And  leaves  the  flowers  of  night  half  fain  of  dawn. 

On  mine  own  hill  the  heath  is  rank,  and  hunters 
The  ling  and  bracken  scarce  can  trample  through ; 

High  on  their  brows  the  lofty  wands  that  waver 
Shelter  the  shepherd  and  the  stranger  too. 

Hide  there  thy  love  and  thy  divine  misdoing; 

If  grass  be  scanty,  or  the  bent  blades  blowing, 
Forth  will  I  bring  my  Shepherd's  Hut  to  view. 

Smoothly  it  runs  upon  its  four  wheels  stirring. 

With  roof  flush  with  thy  brow  and  eyes,  my  guest; 

Thy  cheeks'  own  colour  as  of  palest  coral 
Tinting  the  night-car  on  its  noiseless  quest. 

Its  sill  is  scented  and  its  alcove  roomy 

Where  we  shall  find  a  silent  couch  and  gloomy, 
Flow'r-heapt  for  our  two  heads  grown  fain  of  rest. 

K 


146  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

I  shall  see,  if  thou  wilt,  the  snowy  moorlands. 
Or  lands  whereon  love's  star  her  light  doth  pour, 

Or  those  wind-ravaged,  or  where  snows  beleaguer. 
Or  where  the  dark  Pole  hardens  to  the  core. 

We  will  together  as  fair  chance  may  beckon. 

Of  time  or  of  the  world  why  should  I  reckon  ? 
All  shall  be  lovely  that  thine  eyes  adore. 


She  said,  "  I  am  the  empty  stage  grown  passive, 
From  tremors  of  the  mummer's  tread  immune; 

My  emerald  stairs,  my  courts  of  alabaster. 
My  marble  columns  by  the  Gods  were  hewn ; 

I  hear  nor  shout  nor  sigh ;  nor,  calm  or  stormy. 

Feel  the  slow  human  comedy  pass  o'er  me. 
That  looks  to  heav'n  in  vain  for  bane  or  boon. 

"  Onward  I  roll,  unseeing  and  unheeding, 
By  ant-heaps  or  the  swarming  hives  of  men; 

For  me  alike  their  dwelling  and  their  ashes; 
The  names  of  nations  are  beyond  my  ken 

Who  bare  them.     I  am  grave  whom  men  call  mother; 

In  Winter's  icy  shroud  your  lives  I  smother. 
Nor  heed  your  worship  when  Spring  come  agen. 

* '  Before  you  I  was  Ipvely  with  sweet  odour. 

Far  on  the  wind  my  streaming  locks  flung  sheer; 

On  skiey  pathways  immemorial  faring; 
On  the  smooth  axle  of  a  God-like  sphere 

Spun  onward.     After  you  thro'  void  space  wheeling. 

Still  shall  I  soar  aloof  from  human  feeling. 

With  brow  and  breast  that  cleave  the  all  silent  air. ' ' 

Thus  spake  she  with  her  proud  voice  full  of  sorrow. 
And  in  my  heart  I  hated  her,  and  knew 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  147 

Our  blood  was  in  her  tides ;  her  fields  and  forests 

Were  fed  with  our  own  marrow  as  with  dew. 
I  said  unto  my  eyes  towards  her  yearning, 
"  Gaze  otherwhere,  and  weep  not  for  her  spurning ; 
Give  thy  love  only  where  thou  canst  not  rue. ' ' 

Who  twice  shall  know  thy  tender  grace  and  gesture, 
Mild  angel,  and  most  mournful  with  thy  sighs  ? 

Who  like  to  thee  shall  bring  such  blissful  solace 
As  thou  from  the  wan  radiance  of  thine  eyes  ? 

So  sweet  to  us  the  swaying  of  thy  slant  face  is, 

So  sweet  to  us  thy  prone  lithe  body's  graces. 
And  thy  pure  smile  in  love's  or  sorrow's  guise. 

Live  on  cold  Nature,  and  for  us  rekindle 

Forehead  and  feet  with  thy  predestined  might ; 

Live  and  disdain,  since  thou  art  as  a  Goddess, 
Meek  man  who  over  thee  hath  kingly  right. 

More  than  thy  kingdom  and  thy  thriftless  glory 

I  hold  the  grandeur  of  our  human  story; 
Nor  will  I  cry  to  thee,  in  love's  despite. 


126.     THE  SOUND  OF  THE  HORN 

I  LOVE  the  sound  of  the  horn  in  the  deep,  dim  wood- 
land, 
Whether  it  wail  with  the  doe  that  is  nigh  to  death. 
Or  cry  the  hunter's  farewell  on  the  echoes  waning. 
From  leaf  to  leaf  borne  on  by  the  north  wind's 

breath. 

How  often  alone,  in  the  shadow  at  midnight  straying, 
I  have  smiled  to  hear  it,  how  often  have  wept  still 

morel 


148  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

For  I  seemed  to  hear  the  rumour  of  things  foreboding 
The  death  of  the  Paladin  knights  that  lived  of  yore. 

O  azure  Mountain !     0  land  that  my  heart  is  fain  of ! 

Franzona  fells,  and  summits  of  Marbore, 
Fountains  that  fall  with  the  drifted  snows  for  a  burden, 

Torrents  and  brooks  of  the  Pyrenees'  chill  spray. 

Mountains  frozen  or  fertile,  throning  the  seasons. 
Who  have  ice  for  crown  and  the  meadows  about 

your  feet, 
*Tis  there  would  I  dwell,  'tis  there  would  I  wait  to 

hearken 
The  far-borne  sound  of  the  horn  blow  sad  and 

sweet. 

A  traveller  strayed  mayhap  when  the  air  is  stilly. 
Lifts  up  this  brazen  voice  that  the  night  repeats ; 

With  the  sound  of  his  cadenced  songs  for  a  while  is 

blending 
The  tiny  bell  of  the  tethered  lamb  that  bleats. 

A  doe  that  heareth  the  sound  flies  not  but  rather 
Stands  still  as  a  stone  on  the  hill-top,  while  waters 

chime 

In  vast  uproar  with  the  music  for  ever  calling 
From  the  old  romance  of  the  immemorial  time. 

Souls  of  the  Paladins,  say,  do  your  ghosts  still  haunt 

us  ? 
Is  it  you  who  speak  to  us  still  in  the  blare  of  the 

horn  ? 
Roncevaux  !     Ronceaux  !  deep  in  thy  sombre  valley 
The  shade  of  the  noble  Roland  is  still  forlorn  I 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  149 


VICTOR  HUGO 

(1802-1885) 

127.     THE  SONG  OF  THE  PROW-GILDERS 

WE  are  the  gilders  of  the  prows. 

The  whirl- winds  the  smooth  sea  arouse, 

Spun  onward  like  a  turning  wheel ; 
They  fill  the  hollows  of  the  deep 
With  shining  spume  and  therein  sweep 

The  galleys  on  a  slanting  keel. 

The  squall  whips  round,  the  sly  winds  veer ; 
Loud  the  dark  Archer,  sounding  clear, 

Holds  the  dread  trumpet  to  his  lips. 
Mid  this  bewilderment  'tis  we. 
Though  the  wroth  waves  lurch  giddily. 

Send  forth,  gold-helmed,  the  spectre  ships. 

For  spectre-like  their  golden  helms 

Thrust  thro'  the  flood  and  wind  that  whelms; 

Proud  from  our  slips  they  take  the  sea, 
A  dauntless  mark  for  lightning's  lance 
And  a  stern,  terror-striking  glance 

To  perils  lurking  stealthily. 

Under  the  cooling  leafage  go ; 
Keep  shut  thy  full  seraglio ; 

Let  not  the  veils  down  fall,  0  Sire, 
From  that  strange  throng  that  yestermorn 
Stark  nak^d  to  the  mart  were  borne 

For  barter  to  the  highest  buyer. 


150  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

What  matters  that  to  wind  or  wave, 
A  fair  slave  or  a  dusky  slave, 

From  Alep  or  from  Ispahan  ? 
From  thee  alike  all  shrink  away. 
How  wouldst  thou  then  that  that  should  sway 

The  wild  and  wondrous  ocean  ? 

Each  sates  and  spends  his  royal  whim; 
The  sceptre's  thine;  the  storm's  to  him 

And  lightning;  each  hath  blades  to  smite; 
Thou  hast  thy  scimitar,  and  he 
His  wrath ;  as  of  the  wind  the  sea. 

Men  murmur  at  the  Sultan's  might. 

We  toil  for  ocean  and  for  king. 
Loud  at  our  twofold  task  we  sing! 

O  swarthy  Lord  of  high  renown. 
Thy  stony  heart,  thy  steely  eye 
Shall  not  to  drowsy  birds  deny 

Their  slumber-time  when  dusk  comes  down. 

For  Nature  holds  eternal  sway 

Nor  falters;  God's  spread  wing's  alway 

A  shield  whereunder  all  may  hide; 
We  sing  within  the  stilly  shade 
Blithe  songs  that  rise  all  unafraid 

Of  black  reefs  hid  beneath  the  tide. 

Let  these  our  masters  bear  the  palm, 
Be  crowned  with  laurel ;  we  are  calm 

So  that  they  leave  for  us  aloof 
The  myriad  stars,  so  clouds  still  fly 
On  their  swift  courses  steadily 

Unheeding  any  man's  behoof. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  151 

June  shines,  and  flow'r  on  flow'r  unfurls; 
The  rose  buds  on  white-breasted  girls ; 

There's  sport  and  mirth;  the  craftsmen  sing. 
Ah !  then  is  penance  hard  to  dree, 
And  the  shy  fawns  light-footed  flee 

And  set  the  leashed  hounds  quivering. 

O  Sultan,  though  thy  life  be  spent 
Lapped  round  with  soothest  ravishment, 

Yet  shalt  thou  die,  and  be  no  more. 
Then  live  and  reign — for  life  is  sweet. 
The  fallow  deer  with  folded  feet 

Lie  dreaming  on  the  forest  floor. 

The  mounted  stairway  leads  thee  back 
To  lowly  earth ;  bright  fires  turn  black ; 

The  grave  cries  "  Lo!"  to  humankind. 
Time's  changing  moons  unplume  the  bird; 
The  slow  resurgent  tides  are  stirred 

And  dying  voices  freight  the  wind. 

The  air  is  warm ;  bare  women  dive 
Into  the  pool ;  buds  sunward  strive 

In  heedless  throngs ;  all's  mirth  and  love. 
White  lustre  shimmers  on  the  mere; 
The  woodland  roses  upward  peer. 

Self -mirrored  in  the  stars  above. 

Thy  galley  we  have  gilded  bright. 
Four  hundred  shackled  rowers  smite 

Out  from  the  port  the  insurgent  waves. 
She  curbs  the  wind,  she  climbs  the  tide; 
On  either  hand  the  rowlocks  slide 

Beneath  thy  groaning  galley-slaves. 


152  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


128.     SONG 

TOWARD  your  scented  garden,  Sweet, 
Would  flutter  all  my  linked  words, 

If  with  soft  wings  my  rhymes  might  beat 
The  air  like  birds. 

Like  sparks  along  an  airy  path 

Your  happy  home  they'd  haste  to  find, 

Had  they  but  wings  for  flight  as  hath 
The  wing6d  mind. 

By  night,  by  day,  still  true  to  you. 
They'd  fly  with  eager  winnowings. 

If  but  my  limping  verses  flew 
With  Love's  own  wings. 


129.  "SINCE  FROM  THY  BRIMMING  CHALICE.  . ." 

SINCE  from  thy  brimming  chalice  I  have  sipped ; 

Since  thy  soft  hands  have  held  my  blanched  brow; 
Since  I  have  breathed  the  redolence  that  slipped 

From  thy  sweet  soul  in  earthy  shadow  now; 

Since  it  was  mine  to  hear  from  thee  such  speech 
As  made  the  shy  heart  blossom  in  its  shrine. 

Thy  grief  and  mirth  up- well,  thy  mouth  beseech 
My  mouth,  thine  eyes  a  mirror  unto  mine; 

Since  I  have  seen  upon  my  brow  abide 

One  spark  from  thy  brief  star's  now  veiled  rays; 

Since  I  have  borne  upon  my  life's  full  tide 
One  roseleaf  from  the  stem  of  thy  sweet  days; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  153 

Now  can  I  flout  the  swift  years  in  their  flight: 
Go  by !     Go  by !  for  me  Time  cannot  scathe ! 

Speed  on  your  way  with  your  dead  gcirlands  dight ; 
Within  my  soul's  a  flower  for  ever  rathe! 

Your  wing  may  smite  but  never  a  drop  be  spilt 
From  that  full  vase  that,  slaking,  grows  not  less. 

My  soul  shall  flame  unsmothered  of  your  silt ! 
My  love  outlive  your  blind  f orgetf ulness ! 


130.     GUITAR  SONG 

GASTIBELZA,  gun  on  shoulder, 

Started  this  strange  song : — 
None  of  you  knew  Donna  Sabine, 

None  among  the  throng  ? 
Sing  and  dance,  good  village  people 

For  the  sun  falls  steadily  .  .  . 
There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 

That  will  madden  me. 

None  of  you  knew  Donna  Sabine 

My  own  lady  fair. 
Mothered  by  the  old  Maugrabine 

Out  of  Antequer  ? 
She  who  like  an  owl  at  nightfall 

From  her  tower  cried  mournfully  .  .  . 
There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 

That  will  madden  me. 

Dance  and  sing.     Make  hay,  good  people. 

While  the  sun  doth  shine. 
She  was  young,  her  joyous  glances 

Made  the  heart  to  pine. 


154  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Spare  this  old  man  with  the  urchin 
Just  a  mite  for  charity  .  .  . 

There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 
That  will  madden  me. 

Truly  but  the  Queen  beside  her 

Had  seemed  poorly  graced 
When  she  crossed  Toledo's  river 

In  her  bodice  laced. 
Round  her  neck  a  linked  chaplet 

Old  beyond  all  memory  .  .  . 
There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 

That  will  madden  me. 

Said  the  King  himself  beholding 

How  my  love  was  fair, 
"  For  her  kiss,  or  smile,  or  only 

One  strand  of  her  hair. 
Royal  nephew,  I  would  barter 

Spain  and  all  I  hold  in  fee  ..." 
■    There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 

That  will  madden  me. 

Did  I  truly  love  this  lady  ? 

This  I  know  alone: 
Had  she  but  looked  kindly  on  me 

I,  poor  dog,  had  gone 
Happily  ten  years  to  prison 

Captive  under  lock  and  key  .  .  . 
There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 

That  will  madden  me. 

On  a  summer  day  all  sunny 

Life  and  honey 'd  air. 
She  went  streamward  with  her  sister 

Both  to  wanton  there. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  135 

And  I  saw  her  slender  playmate's 
Foot  agleam,  and  her  bare  knee  .  .  . 

There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 
That  will  madden  me. 

When  I  saw  this  child,  I,  shepherd 

Watching  o'er  my  fold 
Thought  it  was  Queen  Cleopatra 

Whom  I  did  behold; 
She  who  led  the  world's  Lord,  Caesar, 

Tethered,  so  says  History  .  .  . 
There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 

That  will  madden  me. 

Dance  and  sing,  good  village  people, 

Ere  the  night  be  old. 
Sabine  all  her  love  and  beauty 

To  Count  Sarden  sold; 
All  for  a  gold  ring  she  bartered, 

All  for  pride  and  jewelry  .  .  . 
There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain. 

That  will  madden  me. 

I  am  weary ;  on  this  bench  here 

Suffer  me  to  stay. 
Now  hath  Sabine  with  her  Master 

Gone  the  truant  way ! 
On  the  road  that  leads  to  Sarden, 

If,  indeed,  that  road  it  be  .  .  . 
There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 

That  will  madden  me. 

Past  my  hut  I  saw  her  hasting 

Swiftly ;  that  was  all. 
Now,  from  hour  to  hour  I  sicken, 

Full  of  tears  and  gall. 


166  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Idler,  gird  thy  belt  with  daggers, 
To  the  barren  wild  win  free  .  .  . 

There's  a  wind  blows  o'er  the  mountain 
That  hath  maddened  me ! 


131.     THE  VISION 

ALOFT  a  white-robed  angel  I  beheld ; 

His  splendour  the  loud  tempest's  anger  quelled 

And  won  to  silence  the  far  murmuring  sea. 

*  *  Why  comest  thou,  angel,  this  dark  night  to  me  ? ' ' 
I  asked  him.     He  replied,  "  Thy  soul  to  take." 

I  trembled  for  in  woman's  guise  he  spake. 

And  with  my  hands  stretched   orth  to  him,  I  said 

*  *  What  shall  be  left  me  when  thou  shalt  be  fled  ? ' ' 
He  answered  not,  but  all  the  heaven  grew  dim, 
O'erwhelmed  with  shadow.     Thereon  I  cried  to  him 
* '  Where  wilt  thou  bear  me  ?    Show  me  in  what  place. ' 
Still  was  he  silent.     "  0  farer  thro'  blue  space. 

Art  Death  or  Life  ? "  I  cried.     Thereon  did  roll 
All  night's  deep  shadow  o'er  my  ravished  soul; 
The  angel  form  grown  dim  said  "  Lo !  I  am  Love. ' ' 
But  his  dark  brow  was  fair  as  day's.     Above, 
Thro'  his  wide  wings,  beyond  his  shadowy  gaze, 
I  saw  the  starry  multitudes  ablaze. 


132.     CHILDHOOD 

THE  infant  sang;  the  mother,  life  near  over, 
Upon  her  darkened  bed  lay  moaning,  white; 

While  Death  above  in  the  dim  air  did  hover. 
I  heard  Death's  rattle  and  the  singing  mite. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  157 

His  playful  babble  sounding  by  the  skylight, 

Told  all  the  bliss  from  five  brief  summers  drawn; 

His  mother  when  he  fell  asleep  with  twilight, 
Beside  his  tender  breathing  coughed  till  dawn. 

They  bore  her  to  the  grave  for  her  last  slumber; 

But  the  child's  happy  singing  did  not  fail: 
Grief  is  a  fruit;  God  wills  not  it  should  cumber 

The  slender  branches  for  its  load  too  frail. 


133.     JUNE  NIGHTS 

WHEN  the  long  day  dies  in  summer  and  flowers  are 

closing, 
They  scatter  their  odours  that  thrill  thro'  the  drowsy 

sense, 
And  our  eyelids  fall,  while  the  sense,  alert,  lies  dozing 
And  behind  our  slumber  we  gaze  thro'  a  cloudless 

lens. 

Then  the  stars  are  brighter,  the  dark  has  more  soft 

concealment. 

And  over  the  dome  of  heav'n  is  a  hue  of  day. 
And  the  shy,  dim  dawn,  awaiting  the  sun's  fulfilment, 

Lurks  all  night  long  low  down  on  the  skyline  gray. 


134.     THE  SLEEPER'S  PRAYER 

AS  Laura  to  the  Florentine 

Draw  near,  Belov6d,  to  my  bed ; 

And,  passing,  waft  thy  breath  divine 

My  mouth  for  sign 
Shall  be  half-opened  I 


158  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Over  my  sad  brow  when  the  night 

Moves  slowly  with  her  darkened  dreams, 

Gaze  downward  as  with  starry  light  .  .  . 

My  inward  sight 

Shall  then  be  dazed  with  beams ! 

Over  my  kindled  mouth  where  lies 
The  God-lit  flame  of  love  divine, 

Stoop  with  thy  seraph's  kiss,  and  rise 

A  woman  .  .  .  Wise, 

My  soul  shall  wake  to  thine ! 


135.     THE  GRAVE  AND  THE  ROSE 

NOW  Grave  to  Rose  complaineth, 
' '  With  tears  the  dawn  down  raineth 

What  dost  thou,  Love's  own  bloom  ?  " 
And  Rose  to  Grave  replieth, 
* '  What  dost  thou  when  down  lieth 

Love's  self  in  thy  dark  womb  ?  " 

Saith  Rose,  '  *  These  tears  down  spilling. 
With  honeyed  breath  distilling 

To  odours  I  do  bring." 
Saith  Grave,  "  0  blossom  grieving, 
Each  soul  of  Earth's  bereaving 

I  fledge  with  angel's  wing." 


136.     "I  WILL  SET  OUT  TO-MORROW  .  .  ." 

I  WILL  set  out  to-morrow  when  the  dawn-light  whitens 

all  the  land. 
0  my  beloved,  well  I  know  thou  waitest  still  for 

me; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  159 

And  I  will  over  forest  ways  or  where  doth  rise  and 

fall  the  land. 
I  cannot  bear  to  breathe  in  air  so  far  away  from 

thee. 

And  I  will  walk  with  fixed  gaze  on  thoughts  that 

cannot  stray  for  thee, 
And  all  without  me  shall  be  dumb,  and  all  devoid 

of  light, 
Alone,   unknown,   with   downcast  eyes  and   clasped 

hands  that  pray  for  thee. 
So  sad  of  mind,  I  shall  be  blind  nor  know  the  day 

from  night. 

I  shall  not  heed  the  sunset  gold  that  down  the  west 

is  raining  light, 
Nor  ships  with  swollen  sail  that  to  the  haven  onward 

steer, 
And  when  I  shall  be  come  to  thee,  by  waxing  or  by 

waning  light 
Then  will  I  lay  this  holly-spray  and  heather  on 

thy  bier. 


137.  "0  FRANCE,  WHEN  THOU  ART  PRONE 
AND  BOUND  " 

O  FRANCE,  when  thou  art  prone  and  bound 
Beneath  the  tyrant's  ruthless  heel, 

A  voice  from  the  deep  caves  shall  sound 
And  rive  thy  chains  of  steel. 

The  exile  watching  wave  and  sky 

Shall  raise  a  -voice  that  men  shall  hear 

Like  words  that  in  a  dream  drift  by 
Above  their  darkened  sphere. 


160  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

His  words  of  menace  shall  be  seen — 
His  words  that  are  as  lightning's  light — 

Like  swords  that  fill  the  dark  with  sheen, 
In  hidden  hands  that  smite. 

Marble  shall  rock  and  mountains  shake 
Athwart  the  sunset ;  trees  that  bear 

Green  boughs  shall  rend  their  locks  and  rake 
The  shadow- compassed  air. 

His  words  shall  be  a  horn  that  cries 
Shrill  havoc  on  the  ravening  crows, 

Or  as  a  shuddering  wind  that  flies 
By  graves  where  the  grass  grows. 

O'er  newer  races  Time  doth  weld 

They  like  a  thundercloud  shall  break; 

And  if  the  quick  in  sloth  be  held, 
The  ashamed  dead  shall  wake. 


138.     THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  POOR 

GIVE  heed  unto  this  little  lad 

For  great  is  he,  our  God's  own  shrine, 
A  light,  ere  earthly  vesture  clad, 

That  shone  in  heaven's  own  hyaline. 

Bestowed  by  God  for  us  on  earth 
Out  of  his  endless  treasuring, 

God's  wisdom  shineth  in  his  mirth. 
His  kiss  bespeaks  God's  pardoning. 

His  soft  light  beams  upon  us  all, 
Alas!     Joy  is  his  rightful  path ; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  161 

An-hungered,  angel  tears  down  fall; 
A-cold,  all  heaven  thrills  with  wrath. 

If  sinless  ones  have  want  for  dower, 

Man's  shameful  sin's  arraigned  thereby; 

He  holds  the  angels  in  his  power. 
What  thunder  hurtles  terribly 

When  God  doth  find  them  here  sore  hurt 

Within  the  darkness  of  our  day, 
Who  sent  them  to  us  wing-begirt, 

And  finds  them  ragged  in  array! 


139.     THE  SOWER 

NOW  falls  the  dusk  I  sit  in  peace 
Beneath  this  gateway  and  behold 

The  ebbing  daylight  bring  release 
From  toil  by  wood  and  wold. 

With  stirring  at  my  heart  I  heed 
Above  the  furrows  night  has  steeped 

A  ragged  sower  throwing  seed 
Of  harvests  still  unreaped. 

His  tall  black  silhouette  above 

The  tillage  deep  strides  on.     How  brave 
Must  be  his  faith  that  time  will  move 

The  grain  within  its  grave. 

He  crosses  the  unending  plain, 

Now  back,  now  forth ;  with  open  palm 

He  fiings  it  wide  and  fills  again. 
While  here  I  muse  in  calm; 


162  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  his  vast  shadow  from  below 
Uplifted  like  a  sail  unfurled 

With  mighty  rumour  seems  to  sow 
Athwart  the  starry  world. 


140.     THE  BRIDGE 

I  GAZED  on  darkness  where  the  pit  most  dread 

Yawned  from  its  shoreless  depth  unfathomed. 

Therein  nought  stirred.     I  felt  as  one  drawn  down 

Within  its  silent  endlessness  to  drown. 

Far  off,  beyond  the  shadow  as  though  quelled 

Like  a  dim  star,  the  Godhead  I  beheld. 

I  cried:  "My  soul,  my  soul,  thou  must  pass  o'er 

This  endless  gulf  that  hath  nor  shoal  nor  shore. 

And  this  same  night  ev'n  unto  God  must  wend 

Over  a  bridge  of  arches  without  end. 

Nay,  who  can  build  it  ?     None.     Most  dreadful  pit! 

0  weep ! ' '     While  still  I  gazed  in  awe  on  it, 

A  ghostly  form  and  pale  before  me  stept 

That  had  the  seeming  of  a  tear  new  wept; 

A  virgin's  brow,  a  child's  soft  hands  were  his; 

And  white  he  was  as  a  pure  lily  is; 

Light  was  where  he  clasped  hands.     He  showed 

where  loomed 
The  hollow  pit  whereto  all  dust  is  doomed. 
So  deep  that  thence  no  voice  sounds  back  again, 
And  said,  "  Thy  bridge  I'll  build,  if  thou  be  fain." 
And  on  the  pallid  stranger  I  did  stare. 
"  What  is  thy  name  ?  "  said  I.  He  answered  "Pray'r." 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  163 


141.     WINTRY  WEATHER 

NOW  Winter  turns  the  roadway  white. 

In  evil  snares  thy  days  are  held. 
The  bitter  wind  thy  hand  doth  bite, 

In  frosty  hate  thy  joy  is  quelled. 

The  furrows  fill  with  snow  amain. 

The  light  grows  dimmer.  .  .  .  Now  make  fast 
Against  the  sleet  thy  shutter'd  pane, 

Thy  door  against  the  northern  blast. 

But  leave  thy  heart  unshut  to  light, 

A  holy  window.     If  the  hue 
Of  light  be  lost  still  God  may  smite 

With  splendour  of  his  glory  through. 

Mistrust  the  mortal  fruit  of  bliss, 
Mistrust  man's  hateful  lust  of  strife, 

Mistrust  all  priestly  mysteries. 
But  still  believe  in  love,  O  life! 

In  love  as  pure  as  at  the  first 

Still  shining  thro'  life's  prison  bars. 

Whose  draught  is  wine  to  human  thirst. 
Whose  light  is  as  the  sheen  of  stars ! 


142.     THE  SWALLOW'S  NEST 

INTO  the  church  with  pray'r  go  by, 
But  throw  a  glance  as  in  you  go 

At  this  small  nest  that's  hanging  nigh 
The  portico. 


164  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

On  temples  resonant  with  pray'r 
The  swallow  all  untrained  and  true, 

Doth  build  a  little  shrine  more  fair, 
More  full  of  blue. 

The  old  porch  moss  doth  softer  grow 

Round  fledgelings  that  the  summer  brings, 

And  they  grow  quick  in  the  warm  glow 
Of  Christ's  own  wings. 

The  shrine  where  shadows  long  have  lain 
Is  thrilled  with  babble  of  delight ; 

The  nest  is  full  of  mirth.     The  fane 
Is  full  of  night. 

The  never-flinching  saints  that  hear 
The  arching  doorways  shake  above, 

Are  glad  to  feel  themselves  so  near 
To  spring  and  love. 

The  virgins  and  the  seers  incline 

From  their  gaunt  eyries  fain  to  brood 

Over  these  hives  of  birds  that  shrine 
Love's  holy  food. 

A  bird  upon  an  angel  falls; 

The  apostle  smiles  upon  his  shelf, 
"  Good  day  to  you,  brave  saint!"  he  calls. 

"  Good  day,  winged  elf ! " 

In  shrines  is  beauty  manifest. 

And  high  they  soar  on  heaven's  blue; 

But  in  the  summer  swallow's  nest 
God  dwelleth  too. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  165 


143.     ON  THE  DUNES 

NOW  that  my  tasks  are  done,  and  fast 

Life  dwindles  like  a  torch's  glow, 
Now  that  I  seek  the  grave,  down-cast 

By  weight  of  years  and  weight  of  woe ; 

Now  that  beloved  things  gone  by 

Fade  from  my  sight  as  though  drawn  in 

By  some  dark  whirlpool  of  the  sky 
On  summits  once  I  yearned  to  win. 

Now  that  I  say,  "  We  yet  shall  soar. 

The  lie  that  shall  stand  revealed  with  dawn ! '  '- 

I  am  sad,  and  wander  on  the  shore 
Like  one  into  his  dream  withdrawn. 

Beyond  the  sandhills  without  pause 

I  watch  unending  breakers  play, 
Cloud-fiocks  that  fly  the  vulture  claws 

Of  wind  that  seeks  a  fleecy  prey; 

The  roaring  tide,  the  humming  air 

I  hear,  and  sound  of  swathe  and  scythe. 

And  in  my  musing  mind  compare 
The  weary  voices  and  the  blithe; 

And  often  prone  along  some  dune 
I  lie  where  scant  the  grass  is  sown. 

Until  I  see  the  dazed  moon 

With  her  foreboding  eyes  look  down. 

Athwart  the  gulf  of  darkened  space 

She  mounts  and  sheds  a  light  of  dreams, 


166  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  each  stares  in  the  other's  face — 

The  man  that  weeps,  the  moon  that  beams. 

Where  now  are  fled  the  days  that  waned  ? 

Are  all  who  erst  have  known  me  dead  ? 
And  are  my  dazzled  eyeballs  drained 

Of  all  the  light  that  youth  once  shed  ? 

Is  all  gone  by  ?     Forlorn  and  frail, 
My  voice  unanswered  dies  away. 

O  winds !     O  waves !     And  must  I  fail 
Like  gusty  wind  or  driven  spray  ? 

Shall  all  I  loved  be  lost  to  sight  ? 

Within  my  soul  there  falls  the  gloom. 
0  Earth  whose  peaks  are  veiled  in  night, 

Am  I  the  ghost,  and  thou  the  tomb  ? 

Are  life,  love,  joy  and  hope  all  spent  ? 

I  wait,  I  ask,  I  still  implore. 
And  all  my  urns  are  earthward  bent 

To  find  one  drop  still  left  to  pour. 

How  nigh  remorse  is  memory ! 

How  everything  with  tears  is  rife  I 
0  Death,  how  cruel  cold  thy  key 

Within  the  wards  of  human  life! 

Yet  louder  than  the  wind  that  drives 
The  endless  billows,  my  thought  stirs: 

Summer  is  come,  the  thistle  thrives 
Blue-flowered  on  the  sandy  spurs. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  167 


144.     THE  COLOSSUS  OF  RHODES 

MY  name  is  Light.     I  am  seventy  cubits  high. 

Ever  I  watch  the  unbridled  waters  beat, 

A  steadfast  beacon.     Under  my  huge  feet 
Lies  Rhodes.     My  never-sleeping  eyes  descry 
The  snow-capt  hills  whereon  the  eagles  fly. 

The  vast  wheels  of  the  star-led  seasons  fleet ; 

Man  lives  and  dies;  the  moon-drawn  tides  retreat; 
Fresh  bales  for  barter  on  the  flat  wharves  lie ; 

Day  shines ;  the  tempest  slumbers  or  shows  ire ; 
Warder  of  the  blue  vast  I  stand  alway 
A  fix6d  sentinel  for  ever  ware ; 
Nor  dawn  nor  twilight  can  these  eyeballs  tire 

That  watch  sails  fill,  and  waves  like  hounds  that  bay. 
In  the  deep  trance  of  my  Colossal  stare. 


JULIEN-AUGUSTE-PELAGE  BRIZEUX 

(1803-1858) 

145.     THE  NEST 

THIS  eve  I  left  the  flocks  to  stray  and  crop  the  grass 

with  no  one  by 
Because  she  so  desired  a  nest,  that  little  lass  as  old 

as  I. 

I  bore  my  treasure  home:  a  nest  the  tiny  finches 

fashion  deft. 

As  firm  as  ever  mason  wrought,   as  soft  as  ever 

weaver  weft. 


168  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

The  outer  rim  was  like  a  wall  built  high,  with  creeping 

mosses  clad, 

And  all  within  was  down  and  wool  so  fine  and  soft, 

O  happy  lad ! 

How  light  the  little  eggs  I  hold!     They'll  make  a 

necklace  you  shall  wear 
Together  threaded,  little  Anne,  with  strands  from  out 

your  golden  hair. 

If  I  could  slip  it  o'er  the  cap  you  wear  on  Sundays, 

people  would 
Believe  you  were  a  little  saint  just  changed  to  child 

from  angelhood! 


146.     THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  DEAD 

IF  in  this  house  ye  lie  a-bed 
Rouse,  for  this  night  is  to  the  Dead! 

For  them  God  bids  us  knock  your  door, 
Lest  they  be  unremembered. 

For  them,  0  easy  sleepers,  pray! 
The  quick  go  lightly  on  their  way: 

Now  on  a  bed  of  burning  coal 
Perchance  your  buried  fathers  flay. 

Gold  comes  and  goes;  and  yet  behold 
How  many  sell  their  souls  for  gold. 

Arise,  and  on  your  chill  hearth  pray 
That  God  may  keep  your  dead  in  fold ! 

Be  upright  folk ;  of  sin  beware ; 

Weigh  well  your  goods  at  mart  and  fair, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  169 

Nor  give  short  measure.     The  Lord  Christ 
Shall  pay  you  well  for  all  your  care. 

Fire-winged,  the  holy  Seraphin 
Down  to  the  Earth  shall  swiftly  spin, 

Saint  Michael  with  his  golden  scales 
To  weigh  your  sinful  soul  therein. 

Ah,  then  you'll  need  another  bed! 
A  pad  of  hay  shall  prop  your  head. 

And  you  within  the  winding-sheet 
In  lidded  coffin  shall  lie  dead. 

Our  song  is  a  heart-rending  thing ; 
All  men  must  weep  when  we  do  sing. 

Pray  for  your  unforgotten  dead; 
God  sends  the  summons  that  we  bring. 


EVARISTE  BOULAY-PATY 

(1804-1864) 

147.     THE  BOUT 

TWO  wrestlers  in  a  ruthless  grapple  strive 

For  triumph;  but  thro'  long,  long  years  doth  toil 
One  whose  fair  brow  the  dew-filled  flowers  assoil 

Who  seems  in  his  young  lustihood  to  thrive ; 

The  other  an  old  man  whose  hard  thews  would  rive 
The  thing  they  clasp,  but  lean  with  long  turmoil. 
Dull-eyed,  wan-faced,  with  shrunken  hands  that  coil : 

*Tis  Death  that  holdeth  man  within  his  gyve. 


170  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Death  tightens  his  fell  hold  until  at  last 
Man  underneath  his  pallid  foe  falls  down 
Who  thereon  cries,  "  Behold  a  life  o'erthrownl" 
Man  for  a  moment  knows  his  might  doth  dwindle. 
But  rising,  with  his  soul  Death's  self  doth  blast, 
And  even  in  dying  feels  his  glory  kindle. 


CHARLES-AUGUSTIN  SAINTE-BEUVE 

(1804-1869) 

148 

SLEEPLESS  upon  my  bed,  my  spirit's  force 
Elate  upon  a  soundless  flood  did  float. 
When  sudden  hooves  athwart  the  sky  grew  hot 

And  flashed  the  leven  like  a  white-maned  horse ; 

Thunder  behind  was  goad  to  his  swift  course, 
And  the  earth  quaked  beneath  his  chariot ; 
All  beasts  straight  fell  on  stillness  fear-begot, 

Mute  in  their  lairs  as  with  some  wild  remorse. 

But  my  soul  kindled  at  the  lightning  spark; 
My  breast  rose  as  each  flash  upon  the  dark 

Tore  off  some  wrapping  that  had  bound  me  fast. 
More  than  in  storm  God's  voice  within  my  mind 
Spake  loud ;  and  as  a  viol  to  the  wind 

My  spirit  rose  reverberate  on  the  blast. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  171 


AUGUSTE  BARBIER 

(1805-1882) 

149.     THE  IDOL 

O  LIMP-HAIRED  Corsican!  thy  France  was  fair 

By  Messidor's  wide  sunbeams  lit  I 
Like  a  rebellious  steed  that  will  not  bear 

Or  golden  rein  or  iron  bit; 
A  tameless  filly  whose  rude  flanks  did  smoke 

With  blood  of  royal  kings  outpoured, 
She  proudly  trod  the  ancestral  soil  and  broke 

At  last  from  tyranny  abhorred. 
Never  had  she  yet  felt  the  mastering  hand 

Harass  and  goad  with  whip  and  rein ; 
Her  back  by  saddle  never  had  been  spanned, 

Nor  dragged  a  foreign  chain; 
Ungroomed  her  wild  mane ;  like  a  gypsy  wench 

Proud-eyed,  her  haunches  swayed 
On  upright  limbs;  she  made  the  whole  world  blench 

Unquiet  when  she  neighed. 


ISO.     MICHAEL  ANGELO 

HOW  sad  a  glance,  how  shrunk  a  face  thou  hast 

Michael  sublime,  old  shaper  of  rude  stone! 

Never  a  tear  have  those  sad  eyelids  shown ; 
Thou  hast  gazed  like  Dante  on  all  mirth  aghast. 
The  Muse  did  suckle  thee  too  well,  and  fast 

Art  hath  espoused  thee,  thou  art  hers  alone; 

Thro'  threescore  years  of  toiling  thou  hast  known 
No  solace  save  on  her  chill  bosom  vast. 


172  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Thy  life  knew  but  one  blessing:  even  as  God 
To  seal  the  rock  with  thine  immortal  might; 

And  fearful  were  the  feet  that  nigh  thee  trod. 
Like  to  a  lion  with  wild  mane  grown  white, 

When  thy  worn  life  drew  to  its  period 

Renowned  but  weary  thou  didst  leave  the  light. 


FELIX  ARVERS 
(1806-1850) 

151 

MY  soul  doth  grope,  a  darkened  way  I  go, 

And  that  deep  wound  Love  dealt  in  sudden  might 
Must  go  unstanched,  unhealed;  nor  may  I  show 

My  hurt  to  her  who  heedlessly  did  smite ; 

Nor  dare  I  plead  for  succour  in  my  plight, 
Nor  that  her  hand  should  any  boon  bestow, 
But  follow  near  her  though  she  never  know 

My  doom  of  loneliness  and  utter  night. 

But  she  whom  God  made  of  such  gentleness, 
Will  go  her  way  without  or  heed  or  care 
For  my  love's  murmur  where  her  footsteps  fare; 

And  each  day's  task  with  pious  heart  will  bless. 
Reading  these  lines  she'll  say,  still  unaware, 

* '  Who  was  this  woman,  then  ? ' '  and  never  guess. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  173 


GERARD  DE  NERVAL 
(1808-1855) 

152.     THE  GLORIFIED 

WHAT  doth  our  loves  befall  ? 

They  lie  far  underground  I 
And  happier  they  who  all 

Have  fairer  dwelling  found! 

They  are  nigh  the  seraph  throng 
In  skies  that  have  no  shade, 

And  worship  with  sweet  song 
God's  Mother,  the  pure  Maid. 

0  spotless  spouse  unta'en! 

O  maiden-flower  in  leaf  I 
Girl-lover  left  in  pain 

Alone  and  scarred  with  grief ! 

Deep  everlasting  mirth 

Shines  out  from  your  bright  eyes 
Brands  once  put  out  on  Earth, 

Flame  on  in  Paradise! 


153.     FANTASY 

THERE  is  an  air  for  which  I'd  give  all  else 
That  Mozart,  Weber,  or  Rossini  wrote. 

An  old  air  full  of  languid,  mournful  spells 
That  moves  me  only  by  its  charm  remote. 

And  every  time  I  hear  its  music  heave 

My  soul  grows  young  again  'neath  Louis  Treize, 


174  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Two  hundred  years  ago  ...  I  see  at  eve 

A  fair  green  slope  whereon  the  sunbeams  bleize; 

And  then  a  red-brick  castle  cornice-bound 

In  stone,  with  crimson  gleaming  from  the  lead, 

Engirdled  by  great  parks,  and  moat-enwound 
With  flowery  waters  by  a  river  fed. 

And  then  a  lady  at  a  window  high, 

Blond-haired,  black-eyed,  in  olden  garments  clad  . 
Perchance  I  saw  her  in  long  time  gone  by 

In  that  remembered  other  life  I  had. 


154 

FREE-THINKER!  dost  thou  deem  that  only  man 

Is  sentient  in  a  world  where  all  is  so  ? 

Forces  enslaved  thy  liberty  bestow, 
Though  thy  vain  mind  the  universe  outspan. 
In  beasts  respect  the  soul  thou  mayst  not  scan, 

And  flowers'  that  only  Nature's  self  doth  know; 

The  throbs  of  love  thro'  veined  metals  flow; 
All's  sentient,  and  hath  power  to  bless  or  ban. 

Beware  the  blind  wall's  sightless  eye  alert; 

Ev'n  matter  hath  a  speech  translatable  .  .  . 
See  that  thou  move  it  not  to  thy  soul's  hurt! 

In  lowliest  lives  a  God  doth  often  dwell ; 
An  unborn  eye  still  sheathed,  the  stone's  face 
Hides  a  pure  soul  beneath  that  grows  apace. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  175 


155.     EL  DESDICHADO 

I  AM  the  dark  inheritor  of  woe, 

The  Prince  of  Aquitaine  whose  palace  spire 
Lies  low  in  dust.     My  star  is  dead.     The  wire 

Of  my  Starr *d  lute  burns  with  an  ebon  glow. 

Into  the  grave's  night  send  Pausilippo, 
Blue  Latin  seas ;  and  let  my  soul  respire 
The  flower  that  won  my  weary  heart's  desire, 

The  trellis  where  the  rose  and  vine-leaf  grow. 

Am  I  Love  or  the  Moon . . .  ?     Lusignan  or  Biron . 

My  brow's  still  rosy  with  the  Queen's  hot  kiss; 

I  have  swooned  in  sea-caves  where  the  syren  is  . 
Twice  have  I  overborne  Hell's  surge:  I  won 

The  lyre  of  Orpheus  to  sad  melodies 
Of  saints,  with  fairies  in  loud  antiphon. 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET 

(1810-1857) 

156.     BALLAD  TO  THE  MOON 

'TWAS  a  dusky  night  I  spied, 
Hitched  above  the  steeple  high, 

The  moon  ride 

Like  the  dot  above  an  "  i." 

Moon  what  sombre  ghost  doth  trail 
Thee  in  leash  through  the  unknown 

Shadow  pale, 

Face  a-slant  or  fully  shown  ? 


176  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Art  thou  heaven's  only  eye 

Whence  a  sneaking  cherub  peers, 

Us  to  spy 

As  from  thy  wan  mask  he  leers  ? 

Art  thou  nothing  but  a  bowl  ? 

Or  a  spider  huge  of  girth 
That  doth  roll 

Legless,  armless,  over  earth  ? 

Art  thou,  as  I  half  do  dread. 

That  old  clock  that  sounds  the  doom 

Of  the  dead 

Damned  to  hell's  eternal  gloom  ? 

On  thy  speeding  brow  what  toll. 
This  same  night,  of  time  is  ta'en 

From  the  whole 

Of  their  everlasting  pain  ? 

Art  thou  nibbled  by  a  worm 

When  thy  disk  grows  black  and  dim, 

And  thy  form 

Shrivels  to  a  crescent  slim  ? 

Who  despoiled  thee  yesternight  ? 

Wert  thou  as  a  huge  axe-blade 
Hidden  bright 

In  some  giant  of  the  glade  ? 

For  thou  camest,  chill  and  wan, 
And  they  slender  horn  did  spill 

On  my  pane 

Light  athwart  the  window-sill. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  177 

Go,  0  Moon,  that  ebbest  slow, 

Fair-browed  Phoebe's  body  fell 
Far  below. 

Deep  into  the  surgy  swell. 

Now  no  more  than  face  hast  thou. 

Wrinkled  and  long  overworn; 
Even  now 

Fades  away  thy  brow  forlorn. 

The  white  huntress  give  us  back 

In  her  stainless  maidenhood, 
On  the  track 

Of  the  drowsed  deer  in  the  wood. 

0 1  beneath  the  hazel  screen 

Underneath  the  budding  plane, 
Dian  Queen 

And  her  lusty  hounds  astrain  1 

Where  the  black  kid  halts  in  doubt 

High  upon  his  rocky  hill, 
Hearkening  out 

How  the  sound  drifts  nearer  still. 

Following  till  the  quarry's  ta'en, 

Gully,  sward,  or  field  asway 
Gold  with  grain, 

Dian's  hounds  are  sped  away. 

O  eve  when  the  winds  arise, 

Phoebe,  God  Apollo's  kin,— —"' 
Doth  surprise 

By  dim  streams,  a  foot  dipt  in  1 


178  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Phoebe  who  at  close  of  day 
On  the  shepherd's  lips  doth  sit 

Them  to  sway 

Like  a  light  bird  newly  lit. 

Moon,  the  mind  will  ever  hold 
Of  thy  loves  the  lovely  tale, 

As  in  gold 

Letters  that  can  never  pale. 

And  in  youth  that  cannot  die 
Blest  for  ever  thou  to  him 

That  goes  by, 

Full  of  face  or  sickle-slim. 

Thou  hast  love  from  shepherds  old, 
Thou  that  alabaster-browed, 

Nigh  the  fold 

Setst  the  sheep-dogs  baying  loud. 

Thou  hast  love  from  seamen  hale 
Shut  within  high-builded  ships 

That  do  sail 

Under  skies  without  eclipse. 

And  the  girl  thro'  woodland  ways 
Nimble-footed  that  doth  fare. 

In  thy  praise 

Breathes  her  song  upon  the  air. 

Like  a  bear  that  drags  its  chains, 
Thy  blue  eyes  behold  below 

The  loud  main's 

Endless  heaving  to  and  fro. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  179 

Why,  be  winds  or  loud  or  dumb; 

Why,  be  skies  or  foul  or  fair, 
Hither  come 

I  this  way  to  sit  and  stare  ? 

*Tis  to  see  in  dusk  of  night 

Hitched  above  the  steeple  high, 
The  moon  bright. 

Like  the  dot  above  an  **  i." 


157.     "PALE  STAR  OF  EVENING  ..." 

PALE  star  of  evening,  far  herald  wan. 

From  thy  blue  palace  thro'  the  sunset  haze, 
Thy  brow  emerges  on  the  boundless  span 

Of  heav'n.     Where  goes  thy  plainward  gaze  ? 
The  storm  has  done  and  all  the  winds  are  stayed ; 

The  forest  leaves  drip  downward  on  the  heath ; 
The  golden  moth  skims  lightly,  odour-swayed. 

The  meadows  redolent  beneath. 
What  seekest  thou  on  earth  ?     I  see  thee  fare 

In  shy  flight  downward  on  the  sky-line  rent 
By  hill-tops,  smiling  melancholy  where 

Thy  wavering  glance  grows  weary  and  nigh  spent. 

O  star  descending  on  the  verdurous  slope. 

Sad  tear  of  silver  on  Night's  robe  of  grey. 
Thou  who  afar  dost  watch  the  herdsman  grope 

With  sheep  that  follow  on  the  darkened  way — 
Whither  away,  O  star,  thro'  night's  vast  zone  ? 

Seekst  thou  a  reed-bed  on  the  stream  to  sleep  ? 
Or  wouldst  thou  fall  in  silence,  lovely  one. 

Like  a  thrown  pearl  into  the  waters  deep  ? 


180  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

If  thou  must  die,  fair  star,  and  if  thy  head 
Must  plunge  in  ocean's  vasty  deep,  0  spare 

One  moment  ere  thy  lovely  light  be  sped. 
O  star  of  love,  leave  not  the  heavens  bare ! 


158.     SONG 

BRAVE  knight  that  to  the  war  doth  go 
What  wilt  thou  do 

So  far  away  ? 
Dost  thou  behold  the  starless  gloom. 
How  full  of  doom 

The  world's  highway  ? 

You  that  do  deem  a  love  that's  left 
Will  fade  as  swift 

From  wounded  thought. 
Ah !  you  that  after  glory  lust 
Your  fame  to  dust 

Is  sooner  brought. 

Brave  Knight  that  rideth  to  the  fray, 
So  far  away 

What  wilt  thou  dare  ? 
I  weep  who  smiled  whenas  I  heard 
His  lying  word 

That  spake  me  fair. 


159.     ON  A  DEAD  GIRL 

LOVELY  she  was,  if  so  be  Night 
That  slumbers  in  the  sombre  shrine, 

There  laid  by  sculptor  Michael's  might 
Unmoving  in  her  marble  line. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  181 

And  she  was  kind,  if  it  suffice 

To  succour  with  unheeding  face, 
And  give  unseen  of  God's  wide  eyes; 

If  heartless  gold  have  any  grace. 

She  pondered,  if  the  idle  stir 

And  gentle  lilt  of  phrases  low, 
As  plaintive  as  a  brook,  aver 

That  the  shy  brook  doth  ponder  so. 

She  prayed,  if  two  so  lovely  eyes 

From  downward  gaze  and  upward  glance 

In  flight  from  earth  toward  the  skies, 
May  earn  the  name  of  pray'r  perchance. 

She  might  have  smiled,  if  flowers  shy 
That  yet  within  the  bud  are  sealed, 

Might  open  when  the  wind  goes  by 
And  leaves  their  longing  all  unhealed. 

She  might  have  wept,  if  her  white  hand 

That  coldly  o'er  her  heart  is  set 
Had  ever  human  body  spanned 

With  dews  of  heavenly  odour  wet. 

She  might  have  loved,  had  pride  allowed 

That  ever  kept  its  vigil  vain, 
And  like  a  lamp  set  by  a  shroud, 

Shone  in  her  barren  heart's  domain. 

The  hue  of  seeming  life  she  wore ; 

And  she  has  died  by  life  unstirred. 
The  book  is  fallen  to  the  floor 

Whereof  she  never  spelt  a  word. 


182  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


i6o.     THE  MUSE'S  WOOING 

POET,  take  thy  lute  and  kiss  my  mouth ! 

The  wild  rose  feels  her  tender  buds  grow  ripe  ; 
Spring  is  born  to-night,  and  winds  fly  south ; 
Waiting  for  the  dawn  the  throstles  swing 
On  the  first  green  bushes  burgeoning. 
Poet,  kiss  my  mouth  and  tune  thy  pipe ! 

Poet,  take  thy  lute !     Night  on  the  lawn 

Wafts  the  wind  in  odorous  veils  she  slips; 
The  virgin  rose  shuts  jealously  indrawn 
The  pearly  hornet  dying  in  a  swoon. 
Poet,  take  thy  lute,  and  grant  this  boon — 
On  my  eager  mouth  to  lay  thy  lips  I 

Poet,  take  thy  lute!     Youth's  kindling  wine 

Sweeps  God's  veins  to-night  in  seething  flood. 
I  am  troubled;  joy  oppresses;  winds  divine 
Set  fire  upon  my  lips  from  out  the  South. 
Poet,  take  thy  lute  and  kiss  my  mouth ; 
Quench  my  thirsty  longing  with  thy  wood ! 


i6i.     CONSOLATION 

WHY,  O  Dante,  deemedst  thou  life's  worst  trial 
Glad  reminders  in  days  grown  dark  with  grief  ? 

What  deep  wound  could  prompt  thee  to  such  denial 
Bitter  of  pain's  relief  ? 

Light  still  shineth ;  and  wherefore  in  darkness  lying 
Flout  the  solace  of  beams  that  did  erstwhile  shine  ? 

Soul  of  unmeasured  sorrow  for  ever  sighing, 
Say  can  this  speech  be  thine  ? 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  188 

By  this  torch  that  lights  me  with  flame  resplendent, 
Thine  own  heart  this  blasphemous  speech  belied. 

Bliss  remembered  is  dearer  and  more  transcendent 
Than  ought  on  earth  beside. 

Nay !  the  forlorn  that  findeth  a  spark  still  glowing 
Under  ashes  that  smother  his  miseries, 

He  who  seizes  the  ember  and  on  it  blowing 
Gazes  with  dazzled  eyes ; 

He  whose  soul  goes  groping  for  bygone  kisses, 
Who  on  the  Past's  flawed  mirror  his  tears  doth  rain — 

Him  thou  deemedst  a  dupe,  and  his  heart's  fond  blisses 
Intolerable  pain! 

On  Francesca's  lips,  thine  own  angel  of  glory, 
Couldst  thou  utter  so  bitter  a  speech  as  this  ? 

She  who  left  for  a  moment,  to  tell  her  story. 
Her  everlasting  kiss. 


162.     SORROW 

STRENGTH  and  Life  have  fled  afar. 
Friends  are  not,  and  Mirth  is  dead; 
Gone  is  pride  that  erstwhile  fed 

Faith  in  my  frail  star. 

Once  I  hailed  a  friend  in  Truth 
Ere  I  knew  her  changing  guise ; 
When  the  scales  fell  from  mine  eyes, 

Ah,  the  bitter  ruth  I 

Everlasting  is  her  pow'r. 

And  all  men  that  pass  her  by 


184  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Unperceiving,  fruitlessly 
Live  their  little  hour. 

God  doth  speak  and  man  that  hears 
Needs  must  answer;  all  of  good 
Life  hath  given  me  is  the  flood 

Eased  my  heart  of  tears. 


163.     FORTUNIO'S  SONG 

IF  you  think  that  I'll  discover 
Her  for  whom  my  heart  doth  sue, 

Not  for  kingdoms  could  this  lover 
Tell  her  name  to  you. 

So  it  please  you,  pleasant  fellow, 
I  will  sing  an  you  will  pipe, 

She  I  love  hath  hair  like  yellow 
Corn  when  it  is  ripe. 

Unto  that  her  whim  ordaineth 
Straight  my  willing  heart  defers. 

Doth  she  need  my  life,  it  waneth 
Gladly  into  hers. 

Grief  of  love  that's  unrevealed, 
That  none  other  answereth. 

In  my  wounded  soul  lies  sealed 
Even  unto  death. 

I'll  not  tell  for  whom  I'm  suing; 

Nay,  I  love  my  sweet  too  well. 
And  I'll  die  for  her  I'm  wooing 

Ere  her  name  I  tell. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  185 


164.     SONG 

WHEN  men  do  find  upon  a  day 
Hope  fled  away 

And  joy  grown  ill, 
There's  nought  can  soothe  their  misery 
As  melody 

And  beauty  will. 

Far  more  by  lovely  eyes  are  swayed 
Than  by  the  blade 

Of  armed  foe; 
And  nought  can  bring  the  heart  such  ease 
As  melodies 

Loved  long  ago. 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

(1811-1872) 

165.     TERZA  RIMA 

WHEN  Michael  Angelo  left  the  Sistine  dome, 
His  frescoes  done,  sublime  with  radiant  gaze 
To  tread  once  more  the  wonted  streets  of  Rome, 

His  arms  and  eyes  to  heaven  he  still  did  raise, 
His  feet  went  stumbling  on  the  road  of  clay, 
Who  had  forgotten  earth  in  heaven's  amaze. 

While  three  long  moons  went  round  thus  did  he  stay, 
As  though  he  were  an  angel  rapt  before 
The  golden  triangle's  mysterious  sway. 


186  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Brother,  behold  why  poets  suffer  sore, 

With  feet  that  falter  on  the  world's  hard  road: 

For  ever  on  high  heaven  do  they  pore ; 

And  angels,  shaking  their  gold  locks  abroad. 
Lean  over  them  with  sheltering  arms  held  wide 
And  round  mouths  ready  with  a  kiss  from  God. 

They  follow  random  ways  with  random  stride, 
Bruised  by  the  wheels  or  fellow  farers'  ire, 
Or  fallen  on  pitfalls  by  them  unespied. 

What  care  they  for  the  crowd,  or  stones,  or  mire  ? 
They  seek  by  day  the  visions  night  doth  bring, 
Their  cheeks  aflame  with  unappeased  desire. 

Of  earthly  cares  they  know  no  reckoning, 
And  when  in  season  due  their  shrine  is  made, 
Forth  come  they  dazed  from  their  dark  covering. 

The  glory  of  their  holy  toil  hath  rayed 

Their  forms  and  foreheads  with  its  golden  light ; 

Their  eyes  do  glow  with  heaven's  own  light  displayed. 

Night  follows  day,  and  day  doth  follow  night, 
Ere  yearning  eyes,  beseeching  arms  fall  down; 
And  long  it  is  ere  their  feet  fare  aright. 

Our  palaces  for  them  are  all  o'erthrown; 
Their  souls  for  ever  to  their  shrines  fly  back, 
And  leave  their  bodies  on  our  ways  alone. 

Our  day  to  them  seems  than  the  night  more  black. 
Their  eyes  seek  ever  the  blue  sky  divine. 
And  the  left  fresco  puts  them  on  the  rack. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  187 

Like  Buonarotti,  giant  Lord  of  line, 

Their  gaze  goes  ever  to  the  heavenly  vault, 

And  marble  roofs  that  nigh  their  foreheads  shine. 

O  sublime  blindness!     0  majestic  fault! 


i66.     BOAT  SONG 

TELL  me,  lovely  girl, 
Whither  would  you  go  ? 

For  the  sails  unfurl 
And  the  breezes  blow! 

I've  an  ivory  scull, 

Streams  of  silken  flags, 

Golden-ruddered  hull 
Thro'  the  water  drags; 

And  for  ballast  weight 

An  orange  round  and  light; 
And  my  little  mate 

Is  a  seraph  mite; 

And  the  sail  that  swings 

Is  together  sewn 
From  the  down  of  wings 

Cherubim  have  known. 

Tell  me,  lovely  girl, 

Whither  would  you  go  ? 

For  the  sails  unfurl 
And  the  breezes  blow  I 


188  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Would  you  to  the  North 
Where  the  Baltic  raves 

Say,  or  would  you  forth 
Over  tropic  waves  ? 

Where  the  bergs  are  chill 
Pluck  the  flower  of  snow, 

Or  where  fierce  suns  spill 
Cull  the  flower  below  ? 

Tell  me,  lovely  girl, 

Whither  would  you  go  ? 

For  the  sails  unfurl 
And  the  breezes  blow  I 


**  Drive  for  me  your  keel,— 
So  the  girl  did  sigh — 

•*  To  the  land  o'  leal 
Where  no  love  may  die.' 

**  That's  a  coast,  my  dear, 
Not  upon  the  chart 

Of  the  bays  and  drear 
Forelands  of  the  heart." 


167.     ART 

ALL  finest  art  is  seen 

In  forms  that  foil  the  blade 
Unkeen — 

Verse,  marble,  gem  inlaid. 

All  idle  bonds  refuse! 

Yet,  so  thou  move  aright, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  189 

Bind,  Muse, 

Thy  limbs  in  buskins  tight. 

Spurn  the  too  supple  lilt 

That  like  an  easy  boot 
Is  built 

For  any  random  foot. 

Thou  sculptor,  cast  aside 

The  clay  thy  hands  alone 
Have  plied, 

Thy  spirit  elsewhere  flown. 

Strive  with  the  marble  rough 
Hewn  from  Carraran  steeps, — 
.  Such  stuff 

The  perfect  contour  keeps. 

From  Syracuse  her  bronze 

Take  thou,  thereon  imprest 
The  sconce 

Of  proud  or  yielding  gest. 

With  deftest  hand  go  trace 

Over  the  agate  rare 
The  face 

Apollo  once  did  wear. 

Painter,  all  tints  refuse 

That  fade;  but  pass  thro'  fire 
The  hues 

So  fixt  to  thy  desire. 

Call  up  the  syrens  blue 
With  looped  tails  entwined 


190  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Ensue 

With  beasts  of  mythic  kind. 

Above  the  world  enthrone 
Christ  and  the  Maid  Divine; 

Each  one 

Girt  with  the  holy  sign. 

Though  all  things  end  in  dust, 
Yet  Art  well-wrought  lives  on ; 

The  bust 

Outlasts  the  city  gone. 

The  buried  coin  or  ring 
Dug  up  by  some  poor  hind, 

May  bring 

An  Emperor  to  mind; 

And  lines  of  perfect  sound, 

Though  Gods  themselves  may  pass, 

Are  found 

More  durable  than  brass. 

Hew  down  and  chisel  fine, 
So  that  thy  dream  be  sealed 

For  sign 

In  stuff  that  will  not  yield ! 


1 68.     THE  CLOUD 

A  CLOUD  the  far  horizon  scales 
And  shapely  on  the  sky-line  sails, 

As  though  a  naked  girl  rose  slowly 
Out  of  a  lake  that  no  shadow  veils 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  191 

And  upright  in  her  shell  of  pearl 
She  sails  the  blue,  this  pallid  girl, 

Foam-frail,  a  later  Aphrodite 
Born  of  the  foam  in  the  air  a-swirl. 

Behold  the  supple  shining  limb, 
And  how  she  wavers  in  her  whim, 

And  how  Dawn  scatters  roses,  roses 
Over  her  satin  shoulder  slim. 


169.     SONG 

THE  butterflies  that  are  the  snow's  own  hue 
Flutter  in  swarms  above  the  ocean  spray. 

0  butterflies,  when  shall  I  take  with  you 
The  blue  aerial  way  ? 

And  dost  thou  know,  O  fairest  of  the  fair, 
My  black-eyed  maiden  with  the  spinning  feet. 

If  they  could  lend  me  wings  to  cleave  the  air 
Whereto  I  straight  should  fleet  ? 

1  should  not  kiss  a  single  rose,  but  fly 

Straight  over  vale  and  forest  to  my  goal 
Upon  thy  half-shut  lips  at  last  to  die, 
O  blossom  of  my  soul ! 


BOOK  V 


M 


TO 
THE  SHADE  OF  ANDREW  LANG 

DEAR  Andrew  whom  I  never  met, 

Still  o'er  the  years  your  version  mellow 
Shows  "  Aucassin  and  Nicolette  " 

In  English  verses  without  fellow. 
Your  Songs  and  Ballads  of  Old  France 

Are  sweetly  sung  ;  and  on  your  anvil 
You  struck  out  sparks  that  still  enhance 

The  fame  of  Murger  and  De  Banville. 

Though  here  the  jealous  eye  may  find 

Some  few  of  those  yourself  did  render, 
Think  not,  my  master,  I  am  blind 

To  what  in  you  is  blithe  and  tender. 
But  he  who  in  his  book  is  bid 

To  show  the  Gallic  Muse  completely. 
Must  give  again  what  others  did 

Although  he  give  them  far  less  sweetly. 

And  therefore,  while  your  robes  I  don, 

I  set  you  here  among  my  Lares 
Without  your  leave,  since  you  are  gone 

To  haunt  the  land  of  myths  and  fairies. 
And  may  your  sprite  upon  the  sill 

Be  pledge  of  aJl  that's  sweet  and  sunny, 
Although  I  ply  a  wanton  quill 

And  oft-times  render  gall  for  honey. 


VICTOR  DE  LAPRADE 

(1812-1883) 

170.     THE  SUMMITS 

I  WILL  go  and  drink  the  waters  pure  that  feed  the 

rolling  river; 
I  will  tread  the  frozen  azure  of  the  glacier  under 

heel; 
I  will  bathe  my  body  in  the  waves  of  new-born  winds 

that  shiver; 
The  surging  flood  of  thrilling  air  shall  temper  me 

like  steel. 

Let  me  slumber  on  the  mountain-top  that  I  have 

toiled  in  winning, 
And,  thrust  in  the  eternal  snow,  my  hands  be 

purified ; 
There,  in  that  air,  life's  currents  have  their  impulse 

and  beginning, 
Ah!  let  me  hence  and  breathe  full  deep  of  that 

unsullied  tide. 

Then  up!  the  moaning  wind  wanes  out  beneath  the 

giant  boulder. 
Doubt  cannot  soar  so  high  aloof  as  that  chill  height 

I  seek; 
Then  up!  with  calm  and  silence  swathing  brow,  and 

breast  and  shoulder. 
Within  that  rocky  steadfastness  God's  solemn  voice 

shall  speak. 
195 


196  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

The  air  I  breathe  on  that  chill  height  shall  fill  me  on 

descending, 
Along  the  sombre  ways  a  ray  of  light  shall  follow 

me; 
And  those  that  saw  the  toiling  man  toward  the  summit 

wending, 
Shall  never  guess  the  wayfarer  returned  is  even  he. 


LOUISE  ACKERMANN 

(1813-1890) 

171.     IMMORTAL  LOVE 

THE  race  of  men  in  an  eternal  chain 

Hand  on  the  quenchless  embers  of  Love's  pyre; 

Each  takes  the  immortal  torch  and  lights  again 
Its  never-ending  fire. 

Dazed  by  the  glory  of  its  wandering  rays. 

You  swear  when  the  dark  night  has  downward 

rolled 

To  hold  it  high  above  your  path  always, 
Yet  dying,  lose  your  hold. 

Yet  will  your  eyes  have  seen  its  glory  lit; 

Your  life,  transfigured  in  its  sublime  beam. 
May  bear  its  dazzling  vision  to  the  pit 

That  lies  beyond  all  dream. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  197 


JOSEPHIN  SOULARY 

(1815-1891) 

172.     THE  TWO  ROSES 

YESTREEN  beneath  the  greenery 

I  found  young  Rose  in  tears  that  shed 

Over  a  little  rose's  bed 
That  was  less  rosy  far  than  she. 
' '  Dear  heart,  what  can  your  trouble  be  ?  " 

I  asked  the  little  golden-head. 

And  she  replied,  "  Ah,  sir,  if  said 
It's  secret  between  you  and  me!'* 

"  As  I  was  passing  by,  a  rose — 
This  same  whereon  my  tears  down  pour — 
Told  me  this  truth  in  shy  soft  words, 
A  bud  once  blown  can  never  close. 
And  my  fond  heart's  wide  open  for 

The  farmer's  boy  that  drives  the  herds." 


173.    VAIN  DREAMS 

HAD  I  but  an  acre  of  loam  on  hill  or  valley. 

Fed  by  a  stream  that  fell  or  loitered  by. 
There  I'd  plant  an  ash-tree,  a  thorn-bush  or  a  willow, 

There  I'd  build  a  low  roof  between  me  and  the  sky. 
On  my  tree  a  soft  nest,  feather-lined  or  woolly. 

There   should  hold  a  singing-bird — sparrow,  finch 

or  merle, 
Underneath  my  own  roof,  a  bairnie  in  the  cradle 

Garlanding  the  pillow  with  her  brown  or  yellow 

curl. 


198  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

All  I  want's  an  acre;  and  so  to  measure  rightly, 

I  would  take  the  lassie  bonniest  to  me; 
"  Stand  thou  uprightly" — so  should  be  my  bidding — 

"Front  the  rising  sunbeam."     So,  surely  should  I 

see. 
**  Far  as  thy  shade  on  the  grassy  levels  printed. 

Just  so  far  my  faring,  no  farther  than  the  shade's" — 
All  the  lure  of  bliss  that's  far  beyond  fulfilment 

Holds  no  more  for  me  than  a  fickle  dream  that 

fades. 


174.     THE  SCARECROW 

UNDER  her  tilted  hat  of  Tuscan  rushes 

The  brown  birds  at  her  coming  swept  to  raid 
The  ripe  fruit  in  her  open  palm  displayed. 

That  she  had  gathered  from  the  berry  bushes. 

Never  more  loyal  court,  more  queenly  blushes, 
A  queen  more  kind  or  starvelings  less  afraid. 
Vainly  the  grudging  gardener  erst  forbade 

This  foolish  feeding  of  her  wastrel  thrushes. 

The  child  is  dead.     The  churlish  gardener  lays 
Her  old  straw  hat  upon  the  loaded  sprays. 

Thinking  these  greedy  plunderers  thus  to  scare. 
Vain  ruse!     Reminded  of  her  gentle  heed, 
A  thousand  fledgelings  to  their  sister  speed, 

And  evening  finds  the  bushes  all  stript  bare. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  199 

LECONTE  DE  LISLE 

(1818-1894) 

175.     THE  RAVINE  OF  SAINT-GILLES 

THE  gorge  is  dark  below  the  reeds'  massed  slimness 
Wherethro'  the  sun  at  noonday  may  not  pierce; 

And  hidden  springs  slow-thridding  thro*  the  dimness 
Are  merged  in  silence  of  the  solstice  fierce. 

From  the  hard  lava  with  mossed  fissures  pouring 

Over  the  lichens  there  is  water  shed 
And  lost ;  from  hidden  tunnels  of  its  boring 

It  springs  again  along  its  gravel  bed. 

There  smooth  and  sullen  a  dark  bluish  well  is, 
While  all  along  are  heavy  boulders  bound 

With  rosy-belled  lianes  as  on  a  trellis 
Above  the  velvet  plots  of  grassy  ground. 

The  brink  is  fledged  with  cacti,  and  far  flowing,  • 
The  bent-grass  waves  its  filmy  flowers  near, 

Where  stalks  the  red-plumed  cardinal  whose  going 
Fills  the  soft-nested  colibris  with  fear. 

Kingfishers  and  green  parakeets  unstirring 

From  the  high  peaks  gaze  down  on  the  still  well; 

And  round  the  black  hives  in  a  sunbeam  whirring, 
A  golden  swarm  of  bees  is  audible. 

Puffing  a  warm  breath  o'er  the  bushes  mazy, 
Stockstill  amid  the  weed-entrammelled  path, 

Huge  oxen  sniff  the  air  that  wanders  hazy 
Clean  from  the  running  rills  as  from  a  bath ; 


200  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  on  their  peaceful  flanks,  their  shoulders  bossy, 
A  myriad  butterflies  with  gaudy  wings, 

A  myriad  grasshoppers  deride  the  glossy 
Slow  swishing  of  the  velvet  tail  that  swings. 

On  the  rock  slope  flame-fllled  as  a  live  cinder 
The  supple  lizard,  basking  in  his  sloth. 

Simmers  as  though  his  emerald  length  were  tinder 
That  thrilled  to  the  sun's  kisses  nothing  loth. 

O'er  mossy  hollows  where  the  quails  are  resting 

In  leafy  shelter  from  the  jungle  heat, 
With  eyes  half-closed  the  amorous  cats  go  questing, 

Smooth  gliding  by  on  velvet  paws  discreet. 

Black  on  a  boulder,  a  red  loin-cloth  wearing, 
A  native  herdsman  careless  of  his  kine, 

Hums  a  Saklavan  melody,  and,  staring. 

Dreams  of  the  isle  beyond  the  blue  sea-line. 

Thus  on  the  yawning  brink  all  things  that  tingle 
With  life  thro'  frond  or  fibre,  plume  or  pelt, 

Now  shine,  and  dream,  and  chant  in  purpose  single; 
Yet,  in  a  twinkling,  into  stillness  melt. 

Thro'  the  deep  pit  now  silence  walks  with  darkness. 
Since,  with  a  roaring  sound  the  mountain  steep 

Hurled  from  the  waves  its  sulphurous  mass,  in  stark- 
To  harden  in  impenetrable  sleep.  [ness 

A  patch  of  sky  above  the  branches  curving 
Shows  in  a  sparkle  on  the  air  up-buoyed 

A  flock  to  Ceylon  or  Rodrigu6  swerving 

Like  flakes  of  snow  astray  on  the  blue  void. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  201 

Save  for  this  peep-hole  on  the  water  flashing, 
In  the  still  night  the  ravine  sinks  to  sleep ; 

And  even  a  splintered  boulder  downward  crashing 
Sends  up  no  echo  of  its  dreadful  leap. 

He  who  hath  probed  thy  ways,  O  Nature,  proveth 
Illusion  binds  thee,  and  thy  face  belies : 

Whether  in  wrath  or  gladness  thy  strength  moveth, 
Or  rage  or  rapture  thy  cold  heart  denies. 

Happy  the  man  whose  heart  is  his  own  shelter, 
Self-sealed,  from  grief  or  mirth  or  any  hate. 

Unstirred  by  rumours  of  the  world's  va  n  welter, 
A  gulf  of  silence  still  inviolate. 

In  vain  life  stirs  about  him;  as  one  hallowed, 
He  dwells  in  his  own  heart  as  in  a  shrine ; 

In  its  unechoing  darkness  all  is  swallowed. 

And  nothing  shines  there,  save  one  flame  divine. 

But  this  sole  spark  within  its  shadow  hidden 
Is  the  lost  beam  from  spaces  unbeheld ; 

It  calls  him  hence  to  realms  by  life  forbidden. 
And  lights  in  him  the  Eternal  hope  unquelled ! 


176.     HIALMAR'S  HEART 

A  CLEAR  night,  icy  wind,  and  blood-streams  staining 
The  snow  where  tombless  lie  a  thousand  dead. 

With  sword  still  gript  and  eyes  aghast.  Complaining 
The  ravens  wheel  above  them  still  unfed. 

The  light  pours  wanly  from  the  moon's  chill 'd  embers. 
Forth  from  the  bloody  heap  Hialmar  lifts 


202  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

On  his  snapt  sword  himself  whose  corse  dismembers, 
The  blood  of  battle  raining  from  its  rifts. 


*'  Ho  there!     Lives  there  one  lad  in  whom  still  speech 
Of  all  the  lusty  throng  that  dawn  heard  sing     [is 

Full-throated  as  the  thrush  when  he  beseeches 
Behind  the  thick-set  bushes  in  the  spring  ? 

"  All,  all  are  dumb.     My  helm  is  slit,  mine  armour 
Is  riddled  thro'  and  cloven  in  the  fray. 

Mine  eyes  weep  blood.     I  hear  a  swollen  clamour 
Like  foiled  sea-breakers  or  loud  wolves  that  bay. 

"  Come  hither,  old  man-eater  round  me  gliding. 
Rive  thro'  my  bosom  with  thy  beak  of  steel — 

The  morn  shall  find  us  stark  and  still  abiding — 
Bear  thou  my  warm  heart  to  the  girl  that's  leal. 

"To  far  Upsala  where  the  Jarls  together, 
With  song  and  golden  flagons  hold  carouse 

Bear  thou  my  heart,  old  rover  of  the  heather. 
To  Ylmer's  daughter  who  hath  heard  its  vows. 

"There  shalt  thou  find  her  standing  pale,  uprightly 
Aloft  the  tower  where  the  daws  wheel  by. 

And  in  her  ears  two  silver  rings  hung  lightly, 
And  her  eyes  brighter  than  a  clear-starred  sky. 

'*  Tell  her  the  love  I  bear  her,  dusky  raven; 

Lay  down  thy  trophy  whole  and  red  of  hue ; 
She'll  know  it  well,  the  unblanching,  the  uncraven, 

And  Ylmer's  daughter  she  shall  smile  on  you. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  208 

**  I  die.     From  twenty  wounds  ebbs  out  my  spirit. 

Come  wolves  and  drink  my  blood !     My  life  is  done. 
Young,  brave,  unshamed,  I  shall  soon  inherit 

My  seat  where  the  high  Gods  are  in  the  sun." 


177.     THE  SPRING 

A  SPRING  up-sparkles  in  the  silent  forest, 
Far  hid  from  blazing  noon. 
There  rushes  quiver,  and  fain  of  its  cool  boon, 
Bluebells  and  violets  hover. 

Not  goats  that  crop  the  bitter-bladed  grasses 
On  hilly  slopes  hard  by, 

Nor  shepherds  with  their  flute's  suave  melody, 
Have  sullied  that  clear  fountain. 

The  tall  black  oaks  by  all  the  bees  beloved, 
Throw  peaceful  curtains  wide 
Wherein  the  wild  doves  lurk  or,  drowsy,  hide 
Their  heads  beneath  their  feathers. 

The  dawdling  stags  beside  the  mossy  thickets 
Draw  in  the  unhastened  dew; 
Under  green  canopies  the  light  drips  through. 
The  lazy  sylvans  slumber. 

And  the  wan  Naiad  of  the  sacred  fountain 
Lets  fall  her  lids  awhile, 
Dreaming,  half-drows6d ;  and  a  happy  smile 
Flits  round  her  mouth's  red  flower. 

No  yearning  eye,  love-lit,  hath  seen  that  body 
Beneath  its  limpid  veil 


204  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

All  snowy  white,  with  long  locks  liquid-frail, 
Asleep  on  the  sand's  silver. 

And  none  hath  seen  that  cheek  of  maiden  softness, 
The  ivory  neck,  the  line 
Of  that  young  bosom  or  the  shoulder  fine, 
White  arms  and  lips  unsullied. 

But  the  lewd  faun,  alert  on  the  near  branches, 
Spies  through  the  leafy  net 
Her  supple  body  with  spilt  kisses  wet. 
Beneath  the  water  shining. 

Thereon  he  laughs  with  strident  joy  inhuman 
That  thrills  the  arbour  cool ; 
And  the  maid  startled,  pallid  o'er  her  pool, 
Wanes  out  like  a  blown  shadow. 

Ev'n  as  the  Naiad  in  the  distant  woodland 
Asleep  beneath  the  tide. 
Fly  from  the  impious  hand  and  eye,  and  hide 
Light  of  the  soul,  0  Beauty! 


178.     NIGHT 

THE  spent  winds  on  the  mountain  slopes  at  peace 
To  sleep  the  swaying  branches  slowly  woo ; 

The  still  birds  drowse  in  dew;  the  foaming  fleece 
Is  gold  with  star-beams  on  the  waters  blue. 

Soft  mist  hides  all  the  mountain  tracks  and  swathes 
The  plunging  gullies  and  the  peaks  that  soar; 

The  sad  moon  in  her  light  the  foliage  bathes 
And  sounds  of  human-kind  are  heard  no  more. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  205 

But  on  the  pebbles  sings  the  unsullied  surge, 
The  deep  voice  of  the  forest  doth  intone ; 

The  thrilled  air  bears  sea-song  and  forest-dirge 
Up  to  the  night  upon  her  star-lit  throne. 

Mount  upward  holy  murmur,  divine  speech, 
Be  Earth's  low  tidings  unto  Heav'n  upborne, 

And  ask  the  serene  stars  if  we  may  reach 
Their  thrones  by  an  eternal  pathway  worn. 

Earth's  holy  orison  of  wood  and  wave 

Thou  hast  consoled  me  in  dark  days  of  yore ; 

Me  from  my  barren  sorrow  thou  didst  save 
And  in  my  heart  thou  singest  evermore ! 


179.     TRE  FILA  D'ORO 

YONDER  o'er  the  sea  like  a  swallow  hasting  over. 
Fain  would  I  Ry  till  I  reached  the  shore  beyond ! 

Vainly  I  long  who  am  held  a  captive  lover ; 

With  three  strands  of  golden  thread  she  hath  my 

heart  in  bond. 

One  is  her  glance,  and  one  her  smile  compelling. 
One  is  her  lip  like  a  flower  nigh  to  fall; 

Nay,  but  I  love  too  well,  and  suffer  beyond  telling; 
With  three  strands  of  golden  thread  she  hath  my 

heart  in  thrall. 

Ah!     If  I  might  break  the  so  stubborn  knots  that 

bind  me. 
Bid  farewell  to  weeping  and  to  pain,  a  truant  flown ! 
But  ah  1     No  I     No !     Better  death  in  anguish  find  me, 
Than  rend  you  asunder  golden  threads  that  she 

hath  sewn  I 


206  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


1 80.     THE  BLACK  PANTHER 

ALONG  the  clouds  there  spreads  a  rosy  lustre ; 

The  horizon's  laced  with  flame;  while  languidly 
Night  from  her  neck  unlinks  the  pearly  cluster 

That  falls  into  the  sea. 

The  sky  dons  flaming  vesture  of  dawn's  weaving, 
And  folds  of  shifting  splendour  swathe  the  blue ; 

The  trailing  raiment  reddens  the  sea's  heaving 
With  drops  of  fiery  dew. 

On  bamboo-bushes  that  the  light  wind  threshes, 
On  palms  and  purple-fruited  fronds  asway. 

Dew  scatters  silver  sparks,  and  dawn  refreshes 
The  myriad  sounds  of  day. 

From  moss  and  flow'r,  from  hill  and  woodland 

spreading, 

Lulled  by  the  tepid  wind  there  now  upwells 
A  wave  of  air,  scent-saturate,  down  shedding 

Its  fever  of  sweet  smells. 

By  tangled  paths  beneath  the  wood's  green  awning, 
Where  the  thick  grasses  in  the  sunlight  smoke. 

Where  torrents  roar  down  deep-hewn  gullies  yawning 
Under  the  reeds  they  soak ; 

Behold  the  panther  comes  with  black  limbs  shining 
Back  from  her  midnight  hunting  to  her  whelps 

Where  amid  bones  they  huddle  close,  repining 
With  hunger-goaded  yelps. 

Restless,  with  wary  eyes  like  arrows  probing. 
She  steers  among  the  boughs  her  furtive  way, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  207 

And  on  the  blackness  of  her  velvet  robing 
Gleam  blood-stains  of  her  prey. 

She  drags  its  mangled  remnant,  torn  asunder 
From  a  slain  stag,  whereon  to-night  she'll  feed. 

And  the  frayed  haunches  of  her  dreadful  plunder 
Drip  blood  on  moss  and  weed. 

Round  her  the  butterflies  and  wild  bees  muster, 
Skimming  her  supple  sinews  as  they  fleet ; 

A  myriad  bushes  where  sweet  blossoms  cluster 
Throw  perfume  at  her  feet. 

The  p3rthon  from  a  scarlet  cactus  peering 
Unwinds  his  coil,  and  with  a  curious  eye 

Beholds,  above  the  bush  his  flat  head  rearing, 
Her  stealthy  form  go  by. 

She  glides  beneath  tall  fern-trees,  sinking  noiseless 
Behind  mossed  boles ;  the  blazing  air  the  while 

Struck  dumb  in  the  vast  light  above,  grows  voiceless 
Beneath  the  forest  aisle. 


i8i.     THE  SHOWMEN 

LIKE  to  a  dismal  brute,  dust-smothered,  teased. 
That  tugs  its  chain  and  bays  the  blistering  sky, 
Trail  thy  torn  heart  who  will  in  the  foul  sty 

That  so  the  lewd,  flesh-ravening  mob  be  pleased; 

Let  Love's  own  veil  of  glorious  light  be  seized 
And  torn  from  shuddering  limbs  divinely  shy, 
That  so  the  fire  rekindle  its  dull  eye, 

Its  mirth  and  boorish  pity  be  appeased  1 


208  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Though  proud  and  silent  graveward  I  go  hence, 
I'd  rather  plunge  to  endless  darkness  down 

Than  sell  my  heart-throbs  for  the  rabble's  roar; 
I  would  not  give  my  body  like  a  clown 
To  tumble  on  its  paltry  board  for  pence, 

Nor  leer  for  lovers  like  a  shameless  whore. 


182.     AFTER  A  THOUSAND  YEARS 

THAT  night  the  loud  voice  of  the  sea  was  roaring 

Wroth  in  the  darkened  gullies'  rocky  cup. 
And,  all  dishevelled,  clouds  of  mist  were  pouring 

Where  round  the  headlands  the  whipt  spume  rose 

up. 
The  howling  wind  smote  all  the  shades  asunder 

And  tore  them  on  the  cliff -tops;  savagely 
With  bellowing  fury  as  of  taurine  thunder 

It  drove  the  herded  breakers  of  the  sea. 

Like  an  enormous  monster,  frenzy- driven. 

With  bristling  hide  and  mouth  afoam  with  wrath, 

The  mountain  rearing  in  the  embattled  heaven 
Moaned  dreadfully,  its  loins  white  with  froth. 

Rapt  by  the  desperate  cries,  I  heard  more  loudly, 

O  Vision,  O  Desire,  0  Life  new-born ! 
In  the  wild  air  your  holy  songs  that  proudly 

Called  to  me  like  the  trumpeters  of  morn. 

And  forth  from  the  infernal  cavern  reeking 

My  soul  escaped  from  darkness  and  dire  drouth, 

Into  the  feverish  air  of  life,  still  seeking 
For  Glory's  laurel  and  for  Beauty's  mouth. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  209 

And  thus  the  dreadful  night's  loud  voice  spake  to  me: 
"Lo!     Life  is  sweet.     Burst  thou  thy  sepulchre!" 

And  the  mad  wind  with  its  wild  notes  and  gloomy: 
* '  Let  Beauty  draw  thy  being  into  her ! ' ' 

And  I  who  seek  this  boon  of  hours  appalling 

After  a  buried  century  of  decades, 
Hear  nothing  but  these  savage  tears  down  falling, 

The  muffled  onset  of  embattled  shades. 


183.     THE  LION'S  DEATH 

A  HUNTER  old  whom  once  the  desert  air 

And  bulls'  blood  pricked  to  hunger,  then  he  scann'd 
The  sea  beyond  him  and  the  lonely  sand 

With  sullen  roaring  from  his  rocky  lair. 

Then  like  a  damned  soul  in  dire  Hell's  despair 
For  the  lewd  pleasure  of  a  gaping  band. 
He  came  and  went  within  a  cage,  his  grand 

Rude  head  wall-thwarted  in  his  pacing  there. 

Such  being  his  vile  doom  perpetual 

All  meat  and  drink  the  savage  beast  put  by 

Till  his  wild  soul  in  death  o'er-leapt  the  wall. 
O  rebel  to  the  world's  captivity, 
Weak  heart  still  caged,  why  wilt  thou  too  not  die 

And  like  the  lion  make  an  end  of  all  ? 


184.     A  FESTIVAL 

NOR  bloody  altar,  nor  barbaric  rite 

With  tresses  in  a  wreath  of  flowers  bound, 
A  fair-hued  maid  of  lonie  moves  round 

o 


210  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Over  the  moss  as  the  soft  strings  invite. 
Nor  bloody  altar,  nor  barbaric  rite: 

Blithe  songs,  blithe  laughter  where  the  flowers 

abound ! 

Nor  Pan  nor  Satyr  do  the  dancers  heed. 

A  young  man  girt  with  myrtle  of  sweet  balm 
Leads  on  the  quire  whose  voices  waft  the  psalm 

As  Eros  and  the  Cyprian  goddess  plead. 

Nor  Pan  nor  Satyr  do  the  dancers  heed: 

Smooth-gliding  feet,  a  greensward  steeped  in  balm ! 

Nor  storm  nor  wind  to  fill  the  soul  with  fear. 
Thro'  the  blue  sky  the  happy  songs  fly  up, 
And  lovely  children  bear  the  brimming  cup 

To  elders  whom  the  green  boughs  over-peer. 

Nor  storm  nor  wind  to  fill  the  soul  with  fear : 
A  cloudless  sky  wherethro'  the  songs  fly  up  I 


185.     CAMEO 

LONG  shall  he  live  thro'  time  remembered 

By  all  the  happy  gods!     Whose  sure  hand  knew 

Over  the  polished  onjoc-stone  to  spread 
These  ripples  on  the  blue. 

Here,  with  the  sun,  soft  with  bewildered  eyes 
Such  as  a  young  and  joyous  queen  might  have, 

Behold  the  swooning  Cyprian  goddess  rise 
Out  of  the  syren  wave. 

Naked  she  is;  her  rosy  breasts  invade 

The  surging  waters;  and  her  throat  divine 

Is  looped  about  with  silver-woven  braid 
The  cloven  surges  twine. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  211 

Her  golden  tresses  on  the  sea  a-swim 
Are  not  in  garland  or  in  fillet  bound ; 

Her  body  shines  like  some  pale  lily  slim 
Amid  the  violets  found. 

She  laughs  and  gambols,  and  the  dolphins  gay 
The  godlike  radiance  of  her  gaze  to  win, 

Stir  up  the  surge  upon  her  watery  way 
With  thrust  of  tail  and  fin. 


i86.     THE  SUPREME  CONSUMMATION 

NAY,  but  the  world  is  old,  nigh  old  as  hell  ; 

Since  first  man  wept,  since  first  desire  o'ercame 
With  fire  more  fierce  and  bitterer  than  hell's  fiame, 

The  tale  of  time  is  grown  too  long  to  tell. 

*Tis  life  is  ill  and  dying  that  is  well, 
Whether  wrist-bound  the  sea  our  body  claim, 
Or  with  clear  eyes  on  heaven  we  fall  full  game 

To  stroke  of  sword  or  to  the  bursting  shell. 

Thou  hast  my  love,  O  heart  whom  Earth  so  craves, 
0  burning  might  that  bears  the  martyr  out 

Whose  soul  in  passing  grows  in  strength  serene  1 
O  splendid  blood,  come  shrive  me  in  thy  waves. 
So  may  I,  while  the  vulgar  rabble  shout. 
Pass  to  my  endless  home  with  spirit  clean  I 


187.     NOON 

NOON  whose  kingdom  summer  is,  spread  wide  along 

the  plain's  expanse. 
Falls  down  to  earth  in  swathes  of  silver  from  his 

throne  in  heaven's  blue. 


212  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

All  is  silent.     Air's  aflame  and  burns  as  in  a  breath- 
less trance ; 
Earth  lies  drowsed  beyond  awaking  in  her  robe  of 

fiery  hue. 

Far,  in  farness  beyond  span,  stretch  meadows  where 

no  shadow  shows. 
The  stream  where  once  the  cattle  watered  now  hath 
no  more  draught  to  bring. 
Far  away  the  forest  slumbers  deep  amid  the  darkling 

boughs 
Yonder    on   the   still    horizon   where   they   stand 

unquivering. 

All  alone  the  tall  wheat-ears  wave  to  and  fro  their 

ripened  grain. 
As  though  a  tide  of  golden  waters,  heedless  of  the 

drowsy  call. 
Sacred  Earth's  most  careless  brood  with  fearless  lips 

that  seek  and  drain 
To  the  lees  the  brimming  chalice  that  the  sun  holds 

out  to  all. 

Now  and  then,   as  though  a  sigh   from   out  their 

burning  souls  impels, 
The  bosom  of  the  heavy  wheat-ears  lifts  a  mur- 
murous sound,  a-sway 
With  a  slow  majestic  motion  of  the  golden  tide  that 

swells 
Till  it  touch  the  dim  horizon  where  in  haze  it  dies 

away. 

Nearer,  mid  the  grasses  prone  lie  oxen  white  whose 

dew-laps  are 
Slow-dribbling  downward,  while  inert  with  dullard 

gaze  from  languid  eyes 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  213 

Shining  brightly,  they  pursue  across  the  level  fields 

a  far 
Inner  thought  whereof  the  still  unseized  phantom 

ever  flies. 

Get  thee  hence!    O  fellow  man,  avoid  at  noon  these 

shining  fields! 
Or  grief  or  gladness  in  thy  bosom,  fly!  for  nought 

is  here  for  thee. 
Nature  is  an  empty  thing  and  nought  to  any  man 

she  yields: 
Only  here  the  sun  consumes;  nought  lives  or  sad 

or  joyously. 

But  if  sick  of  sorry  laughter  and  the  bitter  sound  of 

woe. 
Or  eager  to  forget  the  world  and  from  its  fret  a 

way  to  win. 
Wrath  or  pity  left  behind  thee,  thou  the  uttermost 

wouldst  know 
Of  supremest   exhaltation,   Come!  and   steep   thy 

soul  herein. 

Here  the  sun  shall  speak  unto  thee  words  of  a  sub- 

limer  sense ; 
In  ardour  of  its  quenchless  flame  yield  up  thy 

selfish  being's  dross, 
With  slow  feet  returning  then  to  sinful  cities  far  from 

hence. 
Seven  times  thy  heart  made  stronger  in  the  furnace 

of  thy  loss. 


214  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE 

(1821-1867) 

188.     BEAUTY 

I  AM  lovely  as  a  dream  of  stone.     Men  sicken, 

Against  my  breast  deep-bruised.     I  bring  sore 

Travail  of  Love  to  poets,  evermore 
Dumb  as  the  Dust  that  no  desire  may  quicken. 
Sphinx-like  I  am  throned  aloof ;  as  plumes  that 

thicken 

The  breast  of  swans  my  chill  heart's  white  at  core; 

All  rhjrthm- offending  tumult  I  abhor 
Who  am  never  with  mirth  elate  nor  sorrow-stricken. 

Poets  before  my  noble  poise  and  gesture 

That  hath  the  pomp  of  all  the  world  for  vesture. 

Waste  their  sad  days  in  study  of  dry  reams; 
For  I,  to  keep  these  loving  suitors  loyal 
Hold  mirrors  up,  that  make  all  beauty  royal, 

In  wide  eyes  brimming  with  immortal  beams. 


189.     THE  GIANTESS 

I  WOULD  it  had  been  mine  in  Time  remote 

When  Nature's  womb  a  monstrous  brood  begat. 
Upon  some  maiden  giantess  to  dote. 

As  at  a  queen's  feet  some  voluptuous  cat; 
To  watch  her  body  budding,  with  her  mind 

Growing  in  dreadful  frolic;  and  dislimn 
The  sombre  furnace  gathering  heat  behind 

The  misty  veil  that  in  her  eyes  did  swim ; 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  215 

Over  her  mighty  shape  to  roam  at  ease, 
Crawl  on  the  slope  of  her  enormous  knees; 

Or  when  the  sultry  heat  of  summer  drove 
My  mistress  prone  athwart  the  grassy  space, 

Drowsed  in  the  shadow  of  her  breasts,  not  move 
Like  a  still  hamlet  at  a  mountain's  base. 


190.     TWILIT  HARMONY 

BEHOLD  the  hour  is  come  when  stems  are  thrilled. 
And  like  swung  censers  flowers  shed  their  fume; 

Now  thro'  the  air  are  sounds  and  odours  spilled; 
O  wistful  waltz  within  the  dizzy  gloom  I 

Now  like  swung  censers  flowers  shed  their  fume; 

Now  like  a  torn  heart  hath  the  viol  trilled ; 
O  wistful  waltz  within  the  dizzy  gloom ! 

Like  a  lone  shrine  the  sky  with  sorrow  is  filled. 

Now  like  a  torn  heart  hath  the  viol  trilled, 

A  shy  heart  that  doth  hate  all  dark  and  doom  I 

Like  a  lone  shrine  the  sky  with  sorrow  is  filled. 
The  sun  is  drowned  in  his  blood's  own  spume. 

A  shy  heart  that  doth  hate  all  dark  and  doom 
Drinks  every  drop  from  the  waned  light  down- 
spilled. 

The  sun  is  drowned  in  his  blood's  own  spume. 
Thy  memory  lights  me  like  a  monstrance  filled ! 

191.     MY  FORMER  LIFE 

UNDER  vast  colonnades  that  took  the  noon's 
Sea-mirrored  fire,  I  dwelt.     In  eve's  dim  light 
The  pillars  showed  majestic  and  upright 

Like  basalt  caves  wherein  the  wroth  sea  swoons; 


216  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

The  surge  that  mocked  the  sun's  face  and  the  moon's, 
Merged  as  in  solemn  and  most  mystic  rite 
The  hues  of  sunset  waning  on  my  sight 

With  mighty  concord  of  immortal  tunes. 

I  drank  voluptuous  calm  amid  the  sheen 
Of  sea  and  sky  and  mirrored  light  serene; 

Where  naked  slaves  with  bodies  steeped  in  balms, 
Eager  to  soothe  the  sorrow  undivined 
Whereof  I  grew  most  weary,  fanned  the  wind 

Athwart  my  brow  with  wafture  of  green  palms. 


192.     THE  PIT 

GREAT  Pascal  had  his  pit  always  in  sight. 

All  is  abysmal — deed,  desire,  or  dream 

Or  speech !     Full  often  over  me  doth  scream 
The  wind  of  Fear  and  blows  my  hair  upright. 
By  the  lone  strand,  thro'  silence,  depth  and  height, 

And  shoreless  space  that  doth  with  terrors  teem  .  . 

On  my  black  nights  God's  finger  like  a  beam 
Traces  his  swarming  torments  infinite. 

Sleep  is  a  monstrous  hole  that  I  do  dread, 

Full  of  vague  horror,  leading  none  knows  where; 

All  windows  open  on  infinity. 
So  that  my  dizzy  spirit  in  despair 
Longs  for  the  torpor  of  the  unfeeling  dead. 

Ah!  from  Time's  menace  never  to  win  free! 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  217 


193.     HYMN 

TO  her  the  dearest,  the  most  fair 

That  fills  my  heart  with  light  sublime, 

The  seraph  of  immortal  pray'r, 
Salute  throughout  immortal  time! 

She  fills  my  life  as  from  the  south 
A  salt  air  that  the  sea-wind  brings, 

And  soothes  my  never  quenched  drouth 
With  savour  of  eternal  springs. 

A  redolence  that  sweetens  all 

The  air  in  some  most  dear  demesne, 

A  censer  that  some  hand  lets  fall 
To  smoulder  in  the  dark  unseen. 

O  how,  unsullied  love,  to  tell 

With  any  truth  the  thing  thou  art  ? 

A  grain  of  musk  that  still  doth  dwell 
Deep-hid  in  my  unaging  heart  ? 

To  her  the  dearest,  the  most  fair 

That  brings  me  joy  and  all  my  pow'rs, 

The  seraph  of  immortal  pray'r, 
Salute  throughout  immortal  hours! 


194,     EXOTIC  PERFUME 

WHEN  with  shut  eyes  in  autumn  twilight  dim 
I  breathe  thy  warm  breast's  odour,  then  I  see 
That  happy  shore  where  everlastingly 

The  sun  smites  downward  from  his  burning  rim ; 


218  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

An  idle  land  where  Nature  in  her  whim 

Breeds  many  a  strange  and  sweetly  burdened  tree; 

Where  women  gaze  from  candid  eyes  and  free, 
And  the  nude  men  are  sinewy  and  slim. 

Thine  odour  bears  me  to  that  blessed  zone : 
Yonder  the  limp  sails  to  the  yard-arms  cling, 
Still  weary  with  their  long  sea-voyaging; 
The  perfume  of  green  tamarinds  is  blown 
About  my  nostrils,  and  to  me  grows  one 
With  voices  of  the  sailors  as  they  sing. 


195.     THE  DEAD  MISTRESS 

WHEN,  0  my  dark  beloved,  thou  shalt  drowse 

Beneath  black  marble,  and  thy  bed-chamber 
Shall  be  deep-delved  and  thy  pleasure-house 

Some  sodden  cavern  whence  thou  mayst  not  stir; 
When  thy  head-stone  shall  so  with  weight  oppress 

Thy  breast  and  supple  thighs  that  it  shall  stay 
Thy  heart  from  beating  and  thy  foot  no  less 

From  hasting  down  the  old  adventurous  way, — 
The  grave  that  knows  my  inmost  heart's  desire 

Shall  thus,  night-long,  my  deathless  wish  repeat : 
*  *  Thou  who  of  thy  sweet  self  didst  baulk  the  buyer. 

How  should  I  spare  thee  now,  adulterous  cheat. 
From  Death's  indignity  ?"     Then  woman,  wail! 
The  worm  shall  suck  thy  burning  body  pale. 

196.     SIN 

FOR  me  the  most  foul  demon  still  doth  plot; 

About  me  like  the  imponderable  air 
He  flows.     I  drink  him,  and  straightway  am  hot 

With  shameful  lusts  the  tongue  may  not  declare. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  219 

And  since  he  knows  how  I  love  form,  he  wins 

My  soul  in  woman's  guise,  or  else  he'll  tell 
Some  pious  tale  of  washing  out  my  sins 

To  tempt  me  to  a  draught  that's  brewed  in  Hell. 
He  leads  me  far  away  from  God's  clear  eyes, 

Halt  and  most  sore  still  am  I  onward  lured 
To  endless  plains  of  speechless  miseries, 

Whereon  unto  my  weary  eyes  and  blurred 
He  shows  red  scars,  foul  raiment,  and  the  shape 
Of  gory  Ruin  with  her^^wounds  a- gape. 

197.     SELF-COMMUNING 

BE  wise,  my  sorrow,  quit  thy  vain  unrest. 

Now  falls  the  twilight  of  thine  eager  plea; 

The  dim  haze  wraps  the  city  vaporously 
In  peace  or  leaves  long  weariness  unblest. 
Now  doth  the  soulless  rabble,  lust-possest, 

Beneath  the  unsparing  goad  of  Pleasure  flee 

To  reap  remorse  in  foul  satiety. 
Come,  0  my  sorrow,  on  serener  quest. 

Behold  the  lost  years  of  thy  life  that  lean 
From  heaven's  high  balcony  in  garments  mean; 

Behold  Regret  from  the  deep  waters  rise. 
While  the  dim  sun  drifts  downward  to  his  bed. 
Hearken  how  eastward  with  unechoing  tread 

The  soft  Night  draws  her  long  shroud  down  the 

skies. 

198.     DEATH 

HAUL  up  the  anchor,  captain  old,  O  Death,  for  it  is 

time; 
We  weary  of  the  listless  shore.     Cast  off,  and  so 

to  seal 


220  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Though  cloud  above  and  wave  below  be  black  as  inky 

slime, 
Our  hearts  are  beaming  cores  of  light  to  dare  the 

dark  with  thee! 

Pour  out  thy  poison  draught,  and  of  thy  comfort  let 

us  drink; 
So  fierce  the  fuel  burns  our  brain  that  headlong  we 

would  sweep. 
Or  Hell  or  Heaven  for  our  port,  thro'  sunless  gulfs  to 

sink, 
And  hail  the  unknown  dark  to  find  a  shore  beyond 

the  deep! 

HENRI  MURGER 

(1822-1861) 

199.     MEMORIES 

HAVE  you  forgotten,  dear  Louise, 

That  flowery  strip  of  garden  old 
Where  I  one  night  your  hand  did  squeeze 

Athrob  with  love  too  full  to  hold  ? 
Our  lips  in  vain  sought  words  to  say, 

And  knees  touched  knees  where  we  did  sit 
Beneath  the  willow-boughs  asway  .  .  . 

Say,  do  you  still  remember  it  ? 

Have  you  forgotten,  dear  Marie, 

The  rings  we  placed  upon  our  thirds, 
The  hot  sun  setting  goldenly. 

The  shady  wood  so  full  of  birds, 
The  fountain  where  we  met  of  yore 

That  babbled  thro'  the  summer  heat — 
That  trysting-place  and  many  more  .  .  . 

Say,  do  you  still  remember  it  ? 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  221 

Have  you  forgotten,  dear  Christine, 

That  tiny  room  once  redolent, 
My  own  sky-scraping  chamber  mean, 

The  soft  May  nights  so  blithely  spent  ? 
Those  starry  nights  when  stars  would  say 

"  As  we  do,  drop  thy  veils,  0  Sweet! 
And  let  thy  lover  have  his  way  "... 

Say,  do  you  still  remember  it  ? 

Louise  is  dead,  and  Marie  goes 

By  sad  ways  downward  to  the  mire; 
Pale  Christine  like  a  flower  reblows 

Far  off  to  suns  of  southern  fire. 
Louise  and  Marie  and  Christine, 

For  me  are  all  three  turned  to  clay, 
Our  love  is  dust,  and  I  with  teen 

Alone  recall  that  happier  day. 


LOUIS  BOUILHET 

(1822-1869) 

200.     SPRING 

RISE  from  your  bed  for  the  Spring  is  born  this 

morning; 
Yonder  in  the  dell  a  rosy  veil's  adrift; 
All  the  garden  thrills  and  sings;  the  sun  upon  your 

window 
Dazzles  like  a  laughing  face  when  eyelids  lift. 

Yonder  on  the  trellis  arch  the  crimson  roses  cluster. 
Making  heaven  redolent  with  soft,  sweet  breath ; 

All  alone  the  vine  is  bare,  and  mid  the  bursting  flowers 
Creeps  along  the  ancient  wall,  a  snake  in  death. 


222  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Round  the  laden  lilac-trees  rustle  in  their  swarming 
Butterflies  and  blue  flies  amid  the  bloom; 

And  the  wild  wood  hyacinth  chiming  on  its  belfry 
Rouses  love  that  lay  asleep  in  forest  gloom. 

Now  that  April  sows  abroad  her  troop   of  ox-eye 

daisies, 

Leave  your  heavy  cloak  behind,  and  hark  how  sweet 
Sings  the  bird  that  calls  you,  your  sister  periwinkles 

Smiling  up  into  your  eyes  from  eyes  that  greet. 

Come,    come    away!  for    the    springs    are    clear    at 

morning; 
Nay,  dear,  wait  no  longer  for  the  hot  noon  hour; 
Fain  would  I  wander  while  the  meadows  still  are 

dewy. 
Telling  of  my  love  for  you  where  fruit-trees  flow'r. 


LOUIS  MENARD 
(1822-1901) 

201.     STOICISM 

BRAVE  strength  breeds  freedom,  for  each  load  we 

bear 
Tries  courage  and  doth  temper  it.     Be  king 
Of  thine  own  mind,  thy  conscience  following 

The  God  unfailing  that  is  shrined  there. 

Thinkest  thou  then  the  august  powers  that  steer 
The  golden  spheres  will  for  thy  pleasure  swing 
Out  of  their  course  ?     In  silence  suffering, 

Play  thou  the  man  uprightly  without  fear. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  223 

The  Gods  alone  know  if  man's  soul  survives: 
But  steadfast  is  the  labour  of  just  lives, 

Be  they  no  more  than  day-long.     With  calm  breath 
They  leave  appraisal  to  the  appointed  judge 
Who  for  the  right  meet  Death,  and  nothing  grudge 

In  envy  of  the  Gods  that  know  not  death. 


THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE 

(1823-1891) 

202.     BALLADE  OF  THE  FOREST  HAUNTERS 

STILL  do  they  sing,  the  swarm  of  mocking  fays 
Well  sheltered  by  the  thorn  and  holly-leaves, 

Who  feel  the  light  winds'  tender,  frolic  ways; 
And  Dian  still  the  lean  wolf-pack  bereaves 
Of  all  its  courage — she  whose  cunning  weaves 

A  bower  to  hide  her  heart  in.     Many  a  hind 

Still  worships  her.     And  when  the  moon  doth  blind 
In  her  white  splendour  poured  from  a  clear  sky, 

With  lovely  locks  adrift  in  the  still  wind, 
Fair  Dian  thro'  the  forest  fareth  by. 

The  water-lilies  and  the  crisped  bays. 

The  chilly  elf,  the  soft-eyed  sprite  that  grieves. 
Spin  round  the  red  dwarf  in  a  mystic  maze. 

Linked  hand  in  hand  beneath  the  nodding  leaves. 

And  green  sylphs  play  the  mummer,  till  upheaves 
A  tall  form  on  the  darkness  half  divined ; 
Whereon  is  heard  long  sobbing  on  the  wind, 

A  sigh  of  grief  for  all  things  gone  awry. 
And  dumb  feet  tear  the  ivy-stems  that  bind : 

Fair  Dian  thro'  the  forest  fareth  by. 


224  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

'Tis  Dian  seeking  trophies  in  her  chase, 

That  hears  the  groan  that  loud  the  spent  stag  gives, 
Half -stifled;  then  the  air's  rude  welcome  lays 

A  rosy  chillness  on  the  limb  that  cleaves; 

Her  hounds,  grown  wroth  with  the  loud  cries  she 

heaves, 
Haste  onward  to  her  bidding  swift  as  wind. 
The  Goddess  tall  whose  fiery  gaze  can  blind 

Draws  tight  the  bow  and  lets  her  arrows  fly; 
Then,  shaking  wide  her  wavy  locks  untwined, 

Fair  Dian  thro*  the  forest  fareth  by. 

Prince,  it  is  time  we  left  the  dust  behind, 

And  stony  ways  whereon  the  hard  wheels  grind. 

In  forest  arbours  far  from  human  eye, 
The  city  of  our  questing  we  may  find 

Where  Dian  thro*  the  forest  fareth  by. 


203.     TO  THE  FONT-GEORGES 

SILENT  fields  where  I  was  glad 
When  I  was  a  little  lad, 
And  my  happy  days  did  hold 
Threads  of  gold! 

0  Font-Georges  that  once  I  knew 
Where  the  robin-redbreasts  flew, 
And  the  nightingale  also 
Singing  low! 

Cottage  white  whereon  the  vine 
Long  of  stem  and  serpentine 
Drank  the  dew-drops  with  its  leaves 
From  the  eaves ! 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  225 

Crystal  stream  that  once  did  roll 
Shadowed  by  the  upright  bole 
Of  a  hollow  walnut-tree 
Steadfastly ! 

Chilly  streams  and  freshets  who 
Feeling  for  the  griefs  I  knew, 
Trembled  in  the  time  gone  by 
At  my  cry! 

Pool  where  washerwomen  were 
Full  of  song  and  void  of  care 
Beating  on  the  board  with  might 
Linen  white  1 

Centenarian  elder-tree 
Whose  hoar  forehead  I  did  see, 
Thunder-stricken  thrice  and  yet 
Firmly  set! 

Arbours  cool  and  copses  wild 
In  the  grassy  sward  enisled, 
Where  to  every  wind  that  played 
Poplars  swayed ! 

Heavy  purple  grapes  that  hung 
On  the  hillside  vines  and  clung 
To  the  laden  stems  that  went 
Earthward  bent; 

Where  when  autumn-time  came  in 
In  her  merriment  would  spin 
Round  the  press  the  vintage-sprite 
At  twilight! 


226  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Briars  whose  ruddy  fruit  doth  bleed, 
In  the  ravines  thrown  for  seed, 
As  of  oaks  the  acorns  are 
Sown  afar! 

Osier-stems  whose  murmurs  light 
Fill  the  ring-dove  with  affright. 
Willow  blue,  the  far  away's 
Sunset  blaze ! 

Boughs  with  ruddy  cherries  bent. 
Reaping  girls  surprised  that  went 
Wading  where  the  waters  fleet 
With  bare  feet! 

Leafy  arbours,  rills,  and  lanes; 
Smell  of  leaves  and  grasses;  plains. 
Shades,  and  rocks  that  often  drew 
Me  to  you! 

Rivers!  forests!  silence  stilled! 
O  what  joys  my  childhood  filled! 
My  fond  soul  to  you  doth  feel 
Far  less  leal 

Than  to  this  poor  joyless  plot 
Where  green  leaf  and  rose  are  not, 
And  the  antique  yew-trees  raise 
Sombre  sprays. 

To  this  sandy  path  that  is 
Dearer  for  the  untold  bliss 
Of  the  hour  when  first  I  heard 
Her  soft  word! 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  227 

Where  my  love,  with  musing  mind 
Gently  her  sweet  self  resigned, 
Leaning  on  my  arm,  and  so 
Speaking  low. 

Thoughts  adrift,  the  while  she  tore 
Leaf  by  leaf  the  flower  she  bore 
With  a  heedless  hand  that  left 
All  bereft, 

At  the  hour  when  from  the  brink 
Trembling  stars  emerge,  and  link 
On  the  sky  that  shines  or  low'rs 
Silver  flow'rs. 


204.     TO  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

THE  poet  snares  his  prize 
As  in  a  fowler's  noose, 

Then  plies 

The  chisel  gravers  use. 

For,  that  his  blade  may  wreak 
On  metal  of  hard  core 

His  freak, 

Deep  must  he  carve  and  bore. 

Hard  is  the  task!     You  hold 
As  I,  the  Muse  must  find 

The  old 

Strict  bondage  to  her  mind; 

That,  shining,  firm,  the  flow 
Of  lovely  line  hard-wrought 


228  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Doth  show 

Smooth-browed  the  labouring  thought. 

For  you  who  do  bestride 

Exalted,  the  wild  horse 
Soft-eyed 

That  down  the  skies  doth  course ; 

O !  you  who  have  the  sleight 

To  snare  in  net  of  words 
Your  bright 

Dream-pinions  like  a  bird's; 

Master  who  mak'st  us  fain 

Of  the  green  laurel,  still 
You  deign 

To  ply  the  tool  with  skill. 


205.     "WE'LL  GO  NO  MORE  THE  WOODLAND 
WAY  ..." 

WE'LL  go  no  more  the  woodland  way,  the  laurel- 
leaves  are  dipt. 
The  little  cupids  in  the  pool,  the  naiads  on  the  sill 
Behold  again  the  sunlit  wave  where  beam  and  shadow 

dipt 
On  waters  poured  from  cups  they  held,  now  silent 

grown  and  still. 
The  laurel-leaves  are  dipt,  and  the  weary  stag  at  bay 
Now  trembles  at  the  sounding  horn;  we'll  go  no  more 

astray 
Where  troops  of  lovely  children  once  went  fro- 
licking their  fill 
Beneath  the  glance  of  lilies  dewy-eyed  and  dewy-lipt. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  229 

Behold  the  scjrthe  that  shears  the  grass,  the  shat- 
tered leaves  that  spill  I 
We'll  go  no  more  the  woodland  way,  the  laurel-leaves 

are  dipt. 

EUGENE  MANUEL 

(1823-1901) 

206.     THE  CRADLE 

FOR  nine  long  months  she  made  her  mother's  vows 
To  lay  her  God-sent  baby  in  a  shrine 
Most  fit  to  hold  him ;  it  must  far  outshine 

The  cot  wherein  the  sons  of  kings  may  drowse. 

Out  on  your  simple  deal,  your  supple  boughs! 
The  artist  drew  the  cot  of  her  design : 
It  must  be  pearl  let  into  rosewood  fine, 

Though  gold  indeed  were  proper  for  his  house. 

Nought  seems  too  costly,  linen  or  fine  lace 
To  swathe  with  whiteness  the  soft  baby  face 

Upon  the  pillow  on  his  birthday  morn. 
Now  is  he  come,  her  little  son,  her  pride ! 
And  lo  I  the  cradle  he  must  sleep  inside 

Is  made  of  oak,  and  to  God's  acre  borne. 


ANDRE  THEURIET 
(1833-1907) 

207.     THE  VINE  IN  BLOSSOM 

ALONG  the  vines  the  blossoms  thrive, 
To-night  just  twenty  years  are  mine. 
Ahl  but  it's  good  to  be  alive 


280  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  feel  the  veins  that  seethe  and  strive 
Like  the  crushed  grape  that  turns  to  wine. 

My  brain's  with  idle  thoughts  abrim; 

I  wander  in  a  tipsy  swoon ; 
I  run  and  drink  the  air  I  skim  .  .  . 
Is  it  the  draught  that  pricks  my  whim, 

Or  blossom  on  the  vine-festoon  ? 

But  ah!  what  odour  freights  the  air 
From  out  the  clusters  of  the  vine  .  .  . 

Ah !  had  I  but  the  heart  to  dare 

Clasp  something  .  .  .  some  one  .  .  .  anywhere 
Within  these  wanton  arms  of  mine ! 

I  fleet,  as  fearful  as  a  fawn. 

Beneath  the  loaded  trellises; 
I  lay  me  amid  blade  and  awn, 
And  on  the  bramble-shaded  lawn 

I  taste  the  wild  red  raspberries. 

And  to  my  lips  that  pant  in  drouth 
It  seems  as  though  a  kiss  were  blown 

On  breezes  from  the  tender  south ; 

As  though  a  soft  and  scented  mouth 
Moved  down  to  mingle  with  my  own. 

0  strange  delight,  0  stranger  dearth ! 
0 !  tendrils  of  the  vine  about, 

0 1  blossoms  trailing  in  your  mirth, 
Is  Love  still  roaming  on  the  earth, 

And  how  may  lovers  find  him  out  ? 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  281 


ARMAND  SILVESTRE 

(1837-1901) 

208.     THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 

NO  live  girl's  body  hath  such  pride  impassioned; 

Such  beauty  is  beyond  Earth's  brittle  clay. 
From  the  hard  marble  was  her  statue  fashioned 

In  lands  where  once  of  old  the  Gods  held  sway. 

No  cruel  soul  that  ever  foils  love's  hoping, 
Could  hide  behind  that  bosom  and  that  brow; 

And  those  twin  summits  from  her  torso  sloping 
Could  sheathe  no  heart  was  traitor  to  its  vow. 

Like  a  steep  rock  her  throat  leans  heavenward,  yearn- 
For  pure  betrothal  with  diviner  life ;  [ing 

And  thwarts  the  tide  of  passion  in  us,  spurning 
The  soiled  caresses  of  our  souls  at  strife. 

O  Rock  upright  amid  our  dust  and  ashes ! 

O  lantern  rising  on  our  bitter  strand  I 
O  statue  whence  the  antique  thought  still  flashes 

Above  us  like  a  tempest-fluttered  brand! 

O  wardress  of  the  sacred  stairway  spiring 
To  perfect  beauty  on  the  heights  afar, 

Where  we  behold  with  dread  our  soul's  desiring; 
O  he  who  did  thy  marble  body  mar 

Struck  deep  the  poet !     For  thine  arms  in  breaking, 
Daughter  of  Gods,  O  deathless  Beauty,  bare 

The  souls  of  all  men  downward,  heav'n  forsaking, 
Into  the  squalid  vortex  of  despair. 


232  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


209.     IMMORTALITY 

WHERE  goes  the  starry  quire  ? 
Whereto  our  hearts  aspire 

To  hail  the  eternal  light. 
Our  soul  to  theirs  uplift 
That  golden-winged  drift 

Athwart  the  solemn  night. 

Shade  on  that  span  immense 
But  wardens  light  intense 

From  gates  that  Death  throws  wide. 
Shade  is  but  the  dark  way 
That  leads  from  yesterday 

To  morrows  glorified. 

Pursue  the  sacred  stars 
That  mount  beyond  the  bars 

Of  day  in  linked  light. 
As  they  to  Death  we  steer, 
As  they  we  wane  when  near 

The  day  that  tjath  no  night. 


210.     PROMETHEUS 

HIS  galled  flesh  writhing  on  the  rock,  he  thrilled 
With  endless  lamentation  the  lone  sky. 
' '  Consort  most  foul  whose  carrion  food  am  I, 

Bear  off  my  heart  and  let  thy  brood  be  filled. 

From  my  red  wound  not  all  the  blood  is  spilled. 
There  mayst  thou  glut.     Thy  gorged  beak  cannot 
My  spirit  with  the  supreme  agony,  [try 

Live  tomb  most  avid  of  my  flesh  unkilledl 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  238 

Most  mournful  ravener,  let  thy  beak  not  halt 
But  rive  my  entrails  with  a  ruthless  edge : 
Not  direst  torture  of  thy  claws  can  mate 
The  torment  of  the  mocking  azure  vault, 
The  stars  that  laugh  on  an  unreached  ledge, 
The  calmness  of  the  heaven  that  I  hate!" 


LEON  DIERX 

(1838-1912) 

211.     OCTOBER  EVENING 

A  TREMOR  slides  from  the  hill-slopes  down  to  the 

plains ; 
From  the  hill-slopes  and  from  the  woods,  in  the 

plain  and  the  croft 
A  tremor  of  night  passes  on  to  the  country  lanes. 
— 0!  the  Angelus  bell  in  the  sunset  chiming  aloft! — 

Under  a  chilly  gust  the  songs  grow  soft, 
Afar  the  sound  of  singing  and  laughter  dies 

In  the  dense  mist  rising  up  as  a  breath  upcurls, 
A  slow  breath  scattering  far  its  last  fond  sighs. 

Its  farewell  sighs  where  the  dark  wood  shakes 

in  dread, — 
It  shakes  in  dread,  and  the  dry  leaf  eddying  whirls, 
Whirls  and  falls  on  paths  that  no  feet  tread. 


212.     WINTER  DAY 

THIS  morning  not  one  beam  cleaves  the  cloud-blind, 
The  laggard  sun  upsurges  with  sealed  eye. 
And  mine  own  gaze  is  dull  with  apathy ; 

With  the  dim  hour,  0  Soul,  content  thy  mindl 


284  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Dead  stars  fade  out  like  sparks  upon  the  wind 

Blown  from  the  smithy,  and  night's  blossoms  die; 
I  sink  in  mine  own  sorrow  utterly; 

Come,  ponder,  0  Soul,  the  dark  hours  left  behind  I 

Night's  angels  now  draw  down  their  sombre  pall; 

They  will  not  hang  their  lanterns  on  the  steep. 

Think  of  the  tearless  crowds  that  deathward  creep, 
Of  shrines  where  now  no  human  footsteps  fall ! 

Thou  art  but  a  grave,  0  Soul,  a  dusty  heap; 
Then  ponder  on  sleep  and  dark  funereal  1 


ACHILLE  MILLIEN 

(1838-        ) 

213.     THE  THREE  SISTERS 

AS  daylight  passes  there  go  three  lasses 

Hand  holding  hand  as  they  move  down  the  lane, 

There's  one  singing  gaily,  and  one  smiling  palely, 
And  one  in  her  sorrow  that  sighs  for  her  swain. 

' '  0  what  is  this  hunger  of  love  ? ' '  saith  the  younger, 
The  second  makes  answer,  ' '  I  know  not.    They  say 

The    heart    dies  without    it." — "Nay,    sisters    dear, 

doubt  it: 
I  who  know,"  saith  the  elder,  "  am  dying  away." 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  285 


SULLY  PRUDHOMME 

(1839-1907) 

214.  THE  INHERITOR 

I  AM  kind-hearted,  wish  no  creature  ill, 

Yet  take  of  oxen  stunned  by  hands  more  strong. 
And,  spite  my  gentleness,  am  glad  the  thong 

Should  make  my  spent  horse  hasten  up  the  hill. 

I  am  fair-minded,  deem  the  poor  man  still 

My  brother,  and  throw  crumbs  unto  the  throng; 
A  dead,  self -stinting  forbear  laboured  long 

That  I,  from  a  full  board,  might  take  my  fill. 

Honest,  my  sleek  well-being  knows  no  debt. 
I  eat  of  bread  begot  of  others'  sweat 

On  fields  made  fertile  by  my  sires'  dead  help. 
Thus  on  unending  massacre  I  browse. 
Nature's  elect,  I  forage  or  I  drowse. 

Bland-eyed  and  bloody  as  an  ogre's  whelp. 

215.  THE  STRANGER 

I  OFTEN  wonder  with  what  blood  doth  beat 
This  truant  heart  that  all  delight  doth  tire. 
These  thoughts  and  feelings  that  unquenched  aspire 

As  though  unending  bliss  for  them  were  meet. 

Where  is  the  paradise  where  thou  hadst  seat  ? 
In  what  King's  army  hast  thou  taken  hire  ? 
Since  vileness  here  doth  flout  thine  eyes'  desire, 

What  beauty  is  thy  soul's  right  counterfeit  ? 

Surely  my  sorrow  for  a  heav'n  unknown 
And  my  divine  disgust  spring  not  unsown : 
Vainly  I  grope  within  my  heart  of  mud; 


236  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  aye  bewildered  by  my  sobbing  breast, 
Hearken  the  grief  of  my  strange  kingly  guest 
Who  veils  the  glory  of  his  land  and  blood. 


216.     BODIES  AND  SOULS 

O!  happy  fleshly  lips  that  glow 

With  kisses  love-besought  or  ta'en, 

And  happy  breasts  whose  breathings  flow 
To  merge  their  sighs  where  they  be  fain. 

O !  happy  hearts  athrob  with  blood, 
In  loving  kindness  side  by  side, 

And  happy  arms  of  loverhood 
That  hold  each  other  fondly  tied; 

And  happy  fingers  too  that  clasp. 

And  eyes  that  gaze,  and  bodies  prone 

That  are  at  peace  in  slumber's  hasp, 
And  nought  at  all  when  life  is  flown. 

But  what  have  souls  but  wretched  spite  ? 

That  must  for  ever  live  aloof. 
Like  flames  that  glow  with  ardent  light 

Behind  a  lantern  lustre-proof. 

Against  their  prison's  cloudy  wall 
They  feel  their  burning  kinship  urge. 

And  vainly  on  their  neighbour  call 

Whose  ardour  cannot  meet  and  merge. 

For  these  that  are  immortal  held 

Were  better  far  a  single  day 
Of  life  to  feel  their  longing  quelled 

And  in  espousal  burnt  away  1 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  237 


217.     THE  GREAT  BEAR 

THE  Great  Bear  shone,  an  archipelago 
Upon  a  shoreless  ocean,  through  long  eld 
Ere  wandering  shepherds  from  Chaldea  beheld. 

Or  ever  weary  soul  knew  fleshly  woe. 

Innumerable  beings  to  and  fro 

Have  wandered  by  its  dazzling  radiance  spelled ; 
And,  careless  of  the  gaze  it  hath  compelled. 

When  the  last  man  lies  dead  it  still  shall  glow. 

**  Thou  art  no  Christian  then!"  believers  chide. 
O !  fatal  outline  that  doth  ever  bide. 

Seven  golden  nails  on  the  dark  void  of  air. 
Thy  slow  march,  thy  chill  light  blur  faith's  far  goal; 
'Twas  sight  of  thee  that  first  bestirred  my  soul 

To  seek  the  meaning  of  my  nightly  pray'r. 


218.     CHAINS 

A  RHYTHM  can  link  me  with  melodious  air. 
And  velvet's  softness  with  this  rose  I  feel; 

A  smile  can  take  my  eyes  as  in  a  snare, 
A  kiss  can  hold  my  lips  as  with  a  seal. 

In  such  frail  bonds  my  life  is  held  by  love 
Of  thousand  other  souls  whereto  I  cling ; 

How  soft  soever  be  the  gusts  that  move 
They  rend  in  me  some  fleshly  fastening. 


288  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


219.     HYMN  TO  DESIRE 

O  DIE  not  yet,  divine  Desire,  whose  flight 

Doth  fan  all  human  things, 
O  thou  who  givest  birth  unto  delight 

By  folding  of  thy  wings. 

Strange  wayfarer,  and  is  thy  love  outgrown 

Made  lip  and  flower  unseal  ? 
The  hidden  sources  of  the  world  unknown 

Wilt  thou  no  more  reveal  ? 

On  Beauty's  face  rain  kisses,  0  Desire! 

Into  the  pit  of  Truth 
Bear  thou  thy  torch's  still  unquenched  fire 

Fair  Son  of  fading  Youth! 

Still  give  us  dreams,  still  give  us  love,  the  great 
Unending  thirst  that,  ever  drawing  up, 

Is  born  again  to  life  insatiate 
Out  of  the  drained  cup ! 


EMIL  BLEMONT 
(1839-        ) 

220.     THE  FALL  OF  THE  YEAR 

AH  I  who  hath  not  joy  of  chill  Autumn 's  slow  coming  ? 

Who  finds  not  delight  in  her  wistful  wan  face  ? 
When  skies  are  all  gray  and  the  seas  are  all  foaming, 

Ah!  then  with  sweet  sorrow  the  heart  fills  apace. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  239 

Then  the  long  day  seems  twilit  at  noon  as  at  morning ; 

In  the  air  full  of  tears,  black  and  bare  hang  the 

boughs ; 
Then  under  the  thatch  the  bright  faggots  are  burning, 

And  fog's  on  the  roof  of  the  old  manor-house. 

With  the  pallor  of  death  now  the  fallow-land  blanches ; 

Nigh  the  stable  that  shelters  the  cattle  from  harm. 
The  reek  rises  upward  between  the  slim  branches 

In  spirals  that  curl  from  the  litter  still  warm. 

We  walk  full  of  dreams  like  a  man  that  is  sleeping; 

We  smell  the  sweet  odours  of  harvests  gone  by, 
And  memory  shines  in  the  midst  of  our  weeping 

Like  a  star  that  is  seen  on  the  far-away  sky. 

We  hearken  no  more  to  the  cry  of  the  swallow; 

The  sap  shrinks  away  from  the  frost  that  doth  bind ; 
All  is  mute.     Love  alone  hath  no  time  that  is  fallow, 

But  blossoms  and  sings  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind. 


VILLIERS  DE  L'ISLE-ADAM 

(1840-1889) 

221.     AVOWAL 

FOREST  and  plain  are  gone, 
And  April's  ancient  spell  .  .  . 

Give  me  thy  lips ;  thereon 

The  woodland  wind  shall  swell. 

Lost  is  the  sullen  stir 

Of  Ocean's  endless  pain  .  .  . 


240  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Speak,  and  my  soul  shall  hear 
His  surging  tides  again. 

In  royal  woe  I  weep, 

And  dream  of  suns  gone  blind 
0 !  bosom  hide  me  deep 

As  nights  bereft  of  wind. 


HENRI  CAZALIS 
(1840-1909) 

222.     STORM  IN  THE  NIGHT 

UP  leapt  the  wave  as  a  wild  unbroken  stallion 
High  into  the  air  flinging  wild  his  spumy  mane. 

When  after  sojourn  long  in  the  stilly  lowland  ways 
I,  on  a  night  of  storm,  beheld  the  sea  again. 

Loud  shrieked  the  wind  with  his  shrilly  voice  rever- 
berate ; 
Wave  after  wave  charged  the  rocky  ledge  of  land ; 
There,  as  I  stood  alone,  before  the  sea's  dishevelling, 
Calm  breathed  my  spirit  on  the  storm-embattled 

strand. 

Up  in  the  sky,  seeking  cover  like  a  frighted  thing, 
Swift  fled  the  moon  letting  fall  her  misty  beams ; 

Far  on  the  foamy  main  the  breakers  roared  unceas- 
ingly 
Whipt  by  the  wind  to  a  rage  of  writhing  streams. 

Hast  thou,  O  Nature,  hidden  sorrows  inconsolable  ? 

Doth  thy  deep  soul  ache  with  agonies  uneased  ? 
Are  the  wild  storms  but  thy  salt  tears  falling  bitterly, 

And  the  loud  winds  but  thy  wailing  unappeased  ? 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  241 

Dost  thou  too  suffer,  0  great  Mother  from  whose 

womb  we  come  ? 
We  ev'n  as  thou  in  thy  nights  of  blackest  shade, 
Writhe  in  our  pain  with  our  stormy  passions  goading 

us; 
In  thine  own  image,  prone  to  darkness  are  we  made. 


223.     THE  HARPS  OF  DAVID 

SPACIOUS,    splendid    and    pacific,    the    vast    night 

unrolled  before  us. 
We  listened  to  the  chanting  of  the  billows  on  the 

deep, 
Our  heart-beats  all  bewildered  by  the  music  that  they 

bore  us, 
And  all  the  harps  of  David  in  the  heavens  seemed 

to  weep. 

The  moon  rose  wanly  in  the  sky,  and  I  a  dream  was 

weaving : 
I  dreamt  that  even  she   did  sing  my   sorrow  to 

allay, 
And  all  the  fond  waves  shoreward  borne  with  passion 

in  their  heaving 
But  reached  the  strand  to  kiss  your  feet  and  ebb 

their  life  away; 

That  we  were  two  without  a  third  in  all  the  world's 

vast  spaces; 
That  I  was  erst  an  errant  soul  in  darkness  all  adrift ; 
But  that  the  harps  of  gold  that  thrilled  the  deep  night's 

hollow  places 
Had  made  me  sob  aloud  for  love,  and  brought  me 

you  for  gift; 

Q 


242  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Whereon  a  peacefulness  arose,  and  splendid  beams 

were  shaking, 
The  while  I  wept  and  laid  my  brow  upon  your  knees 

for  troth, 
And  like  my  heart  the  heavens  above,  no  longer  void 

and  aching, 
Were  spanned  by  the  vast  soul  of  God  outspread 

above  us  both. 


224.     FOR  EVER 

WITHHOLD  thy  love,  though  life  betrays, 
No  whit,  but  dream  and  still  desire; 

And  bare  thy  heart  on  human  ways 

Though  nought  but  wounds  fulfil  desire. 

Though  all  be  vain,  in  truth  still  trust; 

Still  love,  desire  and  dream  amain; 
So  soon  the  heart  returns  to  dust, 

With  love  now  let  it  teem  amain. 

Drink  deep  of  art  and  human  worth; 

Heart  high  pursue  thy  loyal  way; 
Still  walk  as  poet  lord  of  earth. 

Wear  purple  robes  in  royal  way. 

For  love  and  dream  alone  are  true : 

Like  swords  of  lightning  crossed  in  air, 

Athwart  the  heaven's  starless  blue 
Our  life's  a  flame  that's  lost  in  air. 

Alone  in  ardent  passion's  light 
Our  eyes  see  clearly  ere  we  go 

Into  an  everlasting  night 

With  no  return  from  where  we  go. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  243 

Consume  thy  brand,  throw  wide  thy  spark, 
And  let  the  flame  upthrust  again ; 

Think  of  the  grave's  unending  dark 
When  thou  art  turned  to  dust  again. 

So  near  us  yawns  the  dreadful  pit ; 

Or  ere  we  plunge  beyond  desire, 
Now  let  the  brand  of  life  be  lit, 

0  heart  fulfil  thy  fond  desire  I 


BOOK  VI 


TO 

R.  GEOFFREY  W.  SAW 


STEPHANE  MALLARME 
(1842-1898) 

225.     APPARITION 

THE  moon  grew  sad,  and  weeping  seraphim, 
Musing  amid  the  vaporous  flowers  aswim, 
With  slow  bows  from  the  sobbing  viols  drew 
White  tears  that  sank  in  their  coronals  blue. 
It  was  the  blessed  day  of  your  first  kiss. 
My  reverie,  eager  with  new  miseries, 
Was  all  a-swoon  with  perfume  of  shy  grief 
That  leaves  the  heart  to  gather  its  own  sheaf. 
And  frets  not,  nor  yet  sickens  of  its  prize. 
I  wandered,  and  the  worn  way  held  my  eyes 
When  in  the  street  I  saw  your  sun-girt  hair 
And  you  all  smiling  in  the  twilit  air. 
I  took  you  for  that  elf  who,  crowned  with  beams, 
Once  passed  before  me  in  my  childish  dreams. 
And  shed  white  posies  of  sweet-smelling  flow'rs 
Star-like  for  tiny  hands  in  snowy  show'rs. 

226.     WIND  FROM  THE  SEA 

WEARY  is  the  flesh,   alas!  with  many  books  the 

eyes  are  dim. 
Flight !     I  feel  that  birds  are  wild  to  sweep  the  far-off 

skies,  and  skim 
The  unknown  foaml     For  nought  on  land  shall  now 

the  gypsy  heart  be  stayed. 
Not  ancient  gardens  mirrored  back  by  limpid  eyes, 

since  it  doth  wade 
247 


248  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Into  the  sea-borne  flood.     O  nights!  not  the  clear 

lamplight's  lonely  tryst, 
Nor  white  allure  of  sheets  unscrawled,  nor  yet  the 

suckling  infant  kist 
By  the  young  wife.     I  must  away!     The  steamer 

rocks  her  ropes  and  spars! 
0  haul  the  heavy  anchor  up  and  set  all  sail  for  tropic 

stars ! 
Now  weariness  at  last  outworn  by  ruthless  hope's 

unsparing  whip 
Still  strains  toward  white  handkerchiefs  that  wave 

their  farewells  from  the  ship. 
Nay,  but  these  masts  that  brave  the  storm,  may  they 

not  bend  above  the  foam 
Like  wind-broke  spars  on  derelicts  that  mastless  drift 

far,  far  from  home 
Or  happy  haven-isles  that  flow  with  wine  and  oil 

that  never  fails  ?  .  .  . 
But  hearken,  0  my  heart,  the  singing  mariners  that 

hoist  the  sails ! 


JOSE-MARIA  DE  HEREDIA 

(1842-1905) 

227.     CENTAURS'  FLIGHT 

RED-HANDED  and  with  savage  thews  afire, 
They  fly  toward  their  stronghold  on  the  fell ; 
Fear  on  their  flanks  and  death  in  front,  they  smell 

A  lion  lurking  in  the  darkness  dire. 

O'er  torrent,  gully,  and  entangled  brier 
They  leap,  down-treading  serpents  terrible, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  249 

While  far  away  into  the  sky  up-swell 
High  hills  about  Olympus'  topmost  spire. 

At  times  a  charger  in  the  maddened  raid 
Rears  upward,  and  swings  round  with  dreadful 

heed, 
Then  in  a  bound  rejoins  the  wild  stampede, 

For  he  has  seen,  by  the  bright  moonbeams  made, 
An  awful  menace  of  enormous  breed 

In  monstrous  girth  of  Herculean  shade. 

228.  THE  TEPIDARIUM 

MYRRH  sweetens  all  their  supple  limbs;  they  muse 
With  flesh  not  loathful  of  the  chilly  flaws. 
A  brazier  mid  the  steady  wafture  draws 

Now  flame  now  shadow  o'er  their  pallid  hues. 

On  cushioned  beds  the  crimson  swathings  fuse 
With  marble  and  amber  of  fair  limbs  at  pause, 
Upright  or  bending  thro'  the  filmy  gauze 

That  shows  the  suave  lines  of  their  pliant  thews. 

An  Asian  woman,  bare  amid  the  billow 

Of  the  warm  air-stream,  like  a  writhen  willow 

Lifts  nerveless  arms  and  shivers  in  the  wind; 
Whereat  the  Ausonian  maidens  pale  as  swans, 

Do  marvel  at  the  swarthy  tresses  twined 
Sleek  and  untrammelled  round  her  bust  of  bronze. 

229.  TO  A  TRIUMPHER 

CHISEL  upon  thine  arch,  great  king,  a  knot 
Of  captive  slaves  and  many  an  ag6d  chief, 
With  armour  and  the  trophied  spears  in  sheaf, 

Despoiled  ships,  and  festal  altars  hot. 


250  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Whether  thou  be  high-born  or  churl-begot, 
Thy  Hneage,  honours,  titles,  long  or  brief, 
Engrave  them  on  thy  frieze  or  bas-relief. 

Lest  in  the  time  to  come  men  know  thee  not. 

Time's  fatal  weapon  shakes.   Wouldst  thou  hand  down 
The  rumour  of  unconquerable  renown  ? 

A  weed  shall  rend  the  trophies  of  thy  might; 
When  all  thy  tale  of  marble  pomp  lies  tumbled 

Some  mower  on  grass-smothered  stone  shall  smite 
And  mar  his  blade  upon  thy  glory  humbled. 

230.     THE  ROSE  WINDOW 

THIS  window  hath  seen  many  a  dame  and  lord 
In  robes  of  azure,  pearl  and  gold  that  shone 
Bend  low  beneath  the  priestly  benison 

Their  hoods  and  helms  whereon  its  radiance  poured. 

These  at  the  trumpet-blast  would  seize  the  sword 
And  those  the  hooded  falcon  would  set  on 
For  chace  of  skyey  game,  their  masters  gone 

To  hunt  for  Christ  the  Saracenic  horde. 

Prone  lie  they  all  on  marble  hearses  pale. 

A  lean  hound  props  them  in  their  silk  or  mail; 

They  do  speak,  nor  listen,  nor  give  sign. 
Only  from  eyes  of  stone,  as  though  undimmed. 

They  seek  and  see  not  on  the  glass  a-shine 
The  unfading  blossom  of  the  Rose  there  limned. 

231.     ON  THE  OLD  BRIDGE 

ON  graven  chalice  or  on  hasp  of  gold 

With  the  first  beam  the  valiant  master  bent, 
His  brushes  ready  and  his  hand  intent 

On  Latin  mottoes  to  be  smoothly  scrolled. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  251 

Over  the  bridge  the  silvern  belfries  tolled, 

The  spurred  heel  smote,  the  priestly  raiment  went; 
The  mounting  sunbeams  in  the  clear  sky  blent, 

And  lovely  girls  fared  onward  aureol'd. 


And  fain,  whom  wanton  ardour  swiftly  drove, 
The  wistful  lads  forgot  their  lover's  seal 

And  left  the  clasped  hands  on  the  rings  undone. 
While,  with  a  slim  blade  sharp  as  murderer's  steel, 
Cellini,  without  heed,  wrought  on  alone 
A  dagger's  hilt  whereon  the  Titans  stove. 


232.     THE  VISION  OF  KHEM 

I 

*TIS  noon.     Mid  burning  air  and  dreadful  rays 
The  old  river  rolls  a  desultory  stream; 
From  the  blind  zenith  the  bright  earthward  beam 

Falls  sheer.     Stern  Phra  sets  all  the  land  ablaze. 

The  sphinxes  huge  with  never-flinching  gaze 

And  prone  flanks  crouching  under  sands  that  teem. 
Fix  staring  eyeballs  as  in  endless  dream 

On  stony  peaks  that  vault  the  unmeasured  space. 


Sole,  like  a  speck  upon  the  sky's  wan  sheet. 
Far  off  the  questing  vultures  wheel  and  wheel; 

Both  men  and  beast  to  the  vast  flame  succumb. 
The  hot  earth  cracks;  the  Anubis  very  still, 
His  image  midmost  in  the  exultant  heat, 

Barks  at  the  sun  with  brazen  mouth  and  dumb. 


252  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

II 

Old  Nilos  takes  the  round  moon's  silver  glance. 

There  is  a  stir  within  the  burial-field 

Where  each  proud  king  in  pose  hieratic  sealed 
Lies  where  they  laid  him  in  his  mummied  trance. 
As  in  the  days  of  Rhamses  there  advance 

Vast  swarms  unnumbered  that  are  marched  and 

wheeled 

Without  a  sound  through  the  dark  night,  and  yield 
Their  bodies  to  a  rock-hewn  necromance. 

Leaving  on  walls  their  counterfeited  show, 
After  the  trophy-bearing  priests  they  go 

In  honour  of  Ammon,  Lord  of  the  sunbeam. 
Sphinxes  and  Rams,  red-girdled,  in  amaze 
Rear  on  their  haunches  with  astonied  gaze. 

Waked  with  a  start  from  their  eternal  dream. 

Ill 

The  innumerable  multitude  grows  more. 
Now  empty  loom  the  coffins  in  the  crypt. 
Their  dead  are  risen.     From  each  cornice  slipt. 

Again  on  high  the  sacred  falcons  soar. 

Beasts,  people,  kings  in  one  wide  concourse  pour. 
The  gold  crest  gleams  on  ghastly  brows;  tight-lipt 

Are  their  lean  mouths  in  old  bitumen  dipt. 

The  great  Gods  lead:  Hor,  Khnoum,  Ptah,  Neith, 

Hathor. 

Then  comes  the  train  of  Ibis-headed  Toth 
Twice-crowned,  about  them  the  embroidered  cloth 

Thick  with  blue  lotus-buds.     The  errant  band 
Thro'  ruined  shrines  in  pomp  triumphal  goes 
O'er  chilly  pavements  whence  the  wan  moon  throws 

The  immeasurable  shadows  on  the  sand. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  253 

233.     ANTIQUE  COIN 

STILL  Etna  bears  the  red  wine  and  the  gold 
Made  glad  Theocritus  in  times  antique ; 
But  in  our  day  'twere  vain  for  him  to  seek 

That  fruit  whereof  his  gracious  verses  told. 

As  bond-slave  bartered  and  as  harlot  sold, 
The  blood  of  Anjou  Brave  and  Arab  Sheik 
Now  strives  in  Arethusa  with  the  Greek ; 

Her  face  hath  lost  the  godlike  lines  of  old. 

Time  hastes.     All  dies.     Ev'n  marble  towers  tumble. 
Old  Agregente's  citadel  is  down; 

Still  Syracuse  sleeps  where  the  blue  unfurls: 
Only  on  silver  coins  that  cannot  crumble 
Love  set  unsullied  in  its  old  renown 
The  immortal  beauty  of  Sicilian  girls. 

234.     THE  BATH 

LIKE  the  once  lovely  monster,  in  the  tide 
Wade  man  and  beast,  a  bare,  unbridled  twain 
'Mid  golden  gusts  of  bitter,  sea-blown  rain. 

Their  limber  lines  athwart  the  sun  descried. 

The  savage  stallion  and  the  churl  astride 

Deep  draughts  of  the  sea's  briny  odour  drain 
Glad  of  the  icy  thrill  on  flesh  and  mane 

From  sprays  that  on  the  Atlantic  billows  ride. 

The  surge  swells,  runs,  rears  upright,  shatters.     He 
Shouts  loudly.     The  horse  neighs,  and  with  his  tail 
Smites  on  the  rushing  blue  as  with  a  flail ; 

While  on  the  sky,  with  blown  hair,  shudderingly 
They  bear  a  steaming  front  that  breaks  in  hail 

The  foamy  lash  of  the  assaulting  sea. 


254  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

235.     WIND  FROM  THE  SEA 

GARDEN  and  wold  by  Winter's  hand  are  gript. 
All  things  lie  dead.     Over  the  rock's  dull  gray 
The  Atlantic  rollers  break  in  endless  spray. 

The  withered  petals  from  the  stem  are  stript. 

Yet  do  I  feel  an  odour  honey-dipt 

Blown  from  the  sea  about  my  nostril  play 
Kindling  my  heart-ache  for  the  far  away; 

From  what  strange  land  has  this  sweet  perfume  slipt  ? 

Nay,  but  I  know.     Three  thousand  leagues  it  flew 
Out  from  the  West,  where  the  Antilles  blue 

Swoon  in  the  ardour  of  the  tropic  zone; 
And  I  upon  this  surf-beat  Breton  strand 
Have  breathed  the  truant  breezes  that  once  fanned 

The  bud  that  in  America  was  blown. 

236.     THE  BED 

LET  it  be  draped  with  serge  or  with  brocade. 

Sad  as  a  bier  or  merry  as  a  troth, 

There  man's  begot,  begets,  and  dreams  in  sloth, 
Child,  husband,  grandsire,  wife  or  virgin  maid. 
Gay  or  funereal,  with  God's  water  spray 'd 

Under  the  cross,  or  blest  with  palm,  there  both 

Begins  and  ends  his  life,  in  its  long  growth 
From  the  first  dawn  till  the  last  candles  fade. 

Rustic  and  shuttered,  or,  sundown  or  dawning, 
Flaunting  its  gold  and  crimson  for  an  awning, 

Shapen  of  rude  oak  or  of  sycamore; 
Happy  is  he  that  slumbers  without  sin 

In  the  ancestral  bed  that,  stout  and  hoar, 
Bids  welcome  and  farewell  to  all  his  kin. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  255 


FRANCOIS  COPPEE 

(1842-1908) 

237.     THE  RUINED  HEART 

MY  heart  was  as  a  Roman  palace  fair 
With  granite  and  rare  marble,  till  a  band 
Of  ruthless  passions  bearing  axe  and  brand 

Swept  like  barbarians  to  make  havoc  there. 

Then  was  there  ruin  and  desolation  where 
Dwelt  owls  and  vipers  on  the  barren  land; 
Column  and  shard  lay  splintered  on  the  sand, 

And  the  smooth  pathway  teemed  with  briar  and  tare. 

Thro'  the  unlighted  day,  the  starless  night 
Before  my  palace's  disastrous  plight 

Daunted,  I  stood  alone  and  all  uncheered, 
Till  thou  didst  bring  thy  starlike  self,  O  bride! 

Whereon  to  house  our  hallow 'd  love  I  reared 
An  humble  hut  from  ruins  of  my  pride. 


CATULLE  MENDES 
(1842-1909) 

238.     CONSENTMENT 

NOW  Ahod  on  the  plain  kept  countless  sheep. 
His  spouse  one  summer  day  fell  deep  asleep 
Under  a  tree  nigh  Bethel.     While  she  lay 
A  vision  passed  before  her,  in  this  way: 


256  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Herseemed  she  from  a  dream  was  newly  woke, 
And  Ahod  was  before  her  and  thus  spoke : 
"Woman,  arise  and  gird  thee.     Of  my  herd 
Last  year  I  sold  an  hundred  sheep.     One  third 
Is  still  unpaid  of  the  full  sum  agreed. 
But  I  am  old  and  spent ;  and  in  my  need 
Whom  may  I  trust  ?     Get  thee  to  Segor,  bride. 
And  claim  the  thirty  shekels  still  denied." 

She  murmured  not  of  desert,  thieves,  or  dread. 
' '  Thy  servant  hears  thy  bidding,  Lord,  * '  she  said. 
And  when  with  lifted  hand  he  pointed  north. 
She  took  her  woollen  raiment  and  went  forth. 

Now  stony  were  the  ways  and  ill  to  tread. 
With  tears  that  blinded  and  with  feet  that  bled. 
She  fared  till  darkness  fell,  and  on  through  night 
Without  or  human  sound  or  human  sight, 
Till  on  a  sudden  from  the  shadow  smote 
A  savage  scimitar  across  her  throat, 
And  savage  hands  snatched  off  her  robe  of  wool, 
And  left  her  dying  in  a  bloody  pool. 

Thereon,  in  mortal  terror,  she  awoke 
And  found  her  Lord  beside  her,  who  thus  spoke: 
' '  Woman,  arise  and  gird  thee.     Of  my  herd 
Last  year  I  sold  an  hundred  sheep.     One  third 
Is  still  unpaid  of  the  full  sum  agreed. 
But  I  am  old  and  spent;  and  in  my  need 
Whom  may  I  trust  ?     Get  thee  to  Segor,  bride. 
And  claim  the  thirty  shekels  still  denied." 

She  answered,  ' '  Thou  hast  spoken.  Lord.     I  haste. ' ' 
She  called  her  brood  about  her.     Then  she  placed 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  257 

Her  hands  upon  her  first-born,  and  she  bent 

To  kiss  her  Benjamin.     And  all  intent 

She  took  her  woollen  robe  and  forth  she  went. 

239.     EXHORTATION 

THOU  mayst  be  manly  an  thou  wilt.     Go!  clench 

thy  hilt,  and  brave  the  squall 
Where  on  the  peaks  the  whirlwind  shrieks,  and  chase 

the  wild  stag  till  he  fall. 

Get  thee  to  battle!     Brows  are  bright  on  those  that 

fight.     Win  food  and  sleep 
In  fast  and  toil.     Go !  share  the  spoil  with  smugglers 

on  the  mountain  steep ! 

But  in  our  soulless  city  ways,  the  barren  days  will 

wear  thee  down. 
Where  tears  but  suit  a  griefless  mute,  and  mirth  but 

masks  a  weeping  clown. 

As  fountain  spray  but  surges  up  to  brim  the  cup  of 

pools  below, 
A  watery  plume  it  is  our  doom  to  waver  ever  to  and 

fro, — 

Unstable  wills  by  sloth  worn  out  that  shift  about,  and 

know  no  peace. 
Who  in  despair   breathe   living  air  and   shrink   in 
dread  from  death's  release. 

240.     SOROR  DOLOROSA 

STAY.     Light  not  the  lamp.     But  let  us  slake 
Our  eyes  in  shadow,  and  do  thou  unbind 
Thy  brown  hair's  glossy  torrent  for  a  blind 

About  the  silent  kisses  that  we  take. 


258  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

We  are  both  outwearied  with  the  old  heartache. 

The  sun-encumbered  sky  hath  been  unkind. 

Now  let  us  sway  in  the  voluptuous  wind 
That  on  night's  melancholy  sea  doth  wake. 

Slow  sweetness,  surging  slumber  without  dream, 
Funereal  ebb  and  flow  in  endless  stream. 

Thy  hair  wherein  my  drenched  brow  doth  drown 
Calm  eve  that  hateth  life  and  fain  would  pause, 
How  slow  the  tide  of  dumb  oblivion  draws 

Thro'  these  close-woven  locks  of  sombre  brown. 


PAUL  VERLAINE 
(1844-1896) 

241.     "GOD  SPAKE  AND  SAID  ..." 

GOD  spake  and  said,  "Son,  love  me.     Look  and  see 
My  pierced  side,  my  shining  heart  that  bled. 
And  my  maimed  feet  whereon  the  harlot  shed 

Her  tears,  and  mine  arms  weighted  painfully 

With  burden  of  thy  sins!     Behold  the  tree, 

Nails,  gall,  the  sponge,  and  all  the  wounds  yet  red 
To  win  thee  from  the  world's  vile  lustihead 

Unto  my  Flesh  and  Blood  that  calls  for  thee. 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  even  unto  death, 

O!  brother  mine  in  God,  dear  child  begot 
Of  the  same  Holy  Spirit  ?     My  harsh  lot 

Have  I  not  borne  ?    When  direst  sufferings  rend, 
I  share  thy  sweat,  I  sob  with  thine  own  breath, 
Thy  neighbour  in  the  dark,  0  hapless  friend!" 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  259 


242.    ''THE  SKY  ABOVE  THE   ROOFING  LIES" 

THE  sky  above  the  roofing  lies 

So  blue,  so  calm! 
A  pine  above  the  roofing  plies 

Its  wafted  palm. 

The  bell  in  yonder  tower  swings 

In  soft  ding-dong. 
A  bird  in  yonder  pine-tree  sings 

Its  plaintive  song. 

My  God,  My  God,  all  life  is  there, 

How  still,  how  sweet; 
And  peaceful  sounds  the  wafted  air 

From  mart  and  street. 

What  hast  thou  done  that  downward  roll 

Thy  ceaseless  tears — 
What  hast  thou  done,  0  wastrel  soul, 

With  thy  lost  years  ? 


243.   "O  HEARKEN  THE  SO  GENTLE  PLAINT" 

O  HEARKEN  the  so  gentle  plaint 
That  weeps  alone  to  soothe  your  ill, 

As  shyly  sounding  and  as  faint 
As  ripples  on  a  mossy  sill  I 

You  know  the  voice  (once  dear  to  you  ?); 

But  now  the  singer's  hid  away 
And  like  a  widow  veiled  from  view. 

Although  she  proudly  fronts  the  day, 


2e0  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  thro'  her  fluttering  weeds  astream 
Before  the  gusty  autumn  wind 

The  steadfast  star  of  truth  doth  beam 
Upon  the  troubled  heart  behind. 

It  saith,  (this  voice  you  hear  again), 
True  life  is  to  the  kind  of  heart; 

That  all  of  hate  and  malice  wane 
To  nothingness  when  we  depart. 

It  tells  the  bright  felicities 

Of  simple  hearts  that  seek  their  kin 

In  selfless  bridal,  and  the  bliss 

Of  peace  that  seeketh  nought  to  win. 

O  hearken  the  returning  voice 
In  spousal  rapture  singing  clear! 

O  what  can  make  the  soul  rejoice 
Like  staunching  of  another's  tear  ? 

The  soul  that  suffers  without  wrath 
Is  but  astray  in  passing  wrong, 

How  plain  to  follow  is  the  path ! 
O I  hearken  the  celestial  song. 

244.     MY  FAMILIAR  DREAM 

NOT  seldom  in  my  dreams  a  woman's  eyes 

Gaze  into  mine  love-brimmed  and  love-besought; 

This  unknown  woman  knows  my  inmost  thought. 
And  now  has  this  and  now  another  guise. 
For  her  alone  my  heart  unclouded  lies, 

For  her  alone,  alas !  its  maze  is  nought ; 

A  freshness  in  her  healing  hands  is  brought. 
And  weeping  low,  my  fevered  brow  she  plies. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  261 

If  she  be  dark  or  fair  I  cannot  tell, 

Nor  yet  her  name  save  that  its  sound  is  sweet 
As  those  of  loved  ones  we  no  more  may  greet. 

Her  gaze  is  like  a  statue's;  and  the  swell 
Of  her  grave  voice  afar  seems  to  retreat 

Like  those  dear  voices  grown  inaudible. 


245.     GREEN 

HERE  fruit  and  flowers  I  bring  to  thee ;  green  leaves 

and  sprays  I  proffer; 
My  heart  that  beats  for  thee  alone  with  them  to 

thee  I  lift; 
With  thy  two  pale  white  hands  flout  not  the  humble 

gift  I  offer, 
And  may  those  lovely  eyes  of  thine  find  sweetness 

in  my  gift. 

Behold  I  come  before  thee  with  the  dew  still  on  my 

forehead, 
The  chilly  wind  of  dawn  thereon  hath  turned  it  icy 

f rore ; 
Ah  1  suffer  me  to  rest  my  load  beside  thy  feet  adored, 
There  dreaming  Til  grow  strong  again  to  bear  the 

load  I  bore. 

My  head  upon  thy  maiden  breast  in  sweet  surrender 

leaving, 
Therein  the  stir  of  kisses  that  thy  lips  have  shed 

shall  sound. 
So  shall  I  fall  on  quiet  nigh  thy  dear  heart's  stormy 

heaving 
And  sleep  awhile,  when  thy  fond  love  its  haven 

shall  have  found. 


262  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

246.     AUTUMN  SONG 

THE  sobs  are  long 

On  the  violins 
Of  the  barren  throng 

Where  no  leaf  spins; 
And  my  heart's  heavy 

And  listless  grown 
At  hearing  ever 

Their  monotone. 

I  catch  my  breath 

And  I  blanch,  aghast 
As  the  loud  clock  saith, 

'  *  Thine  hour  is  past. ' ' 
And  I  remember 

The  days  long  flown, 
And  thinking  on  them 

I  weep  alone; 

And  away  I  go 

In  the  evil  wind 
That  starts  to  blow 

Like  a  thing  unkind, 
Hither  and  thither 

From  sill  to  stone — 
A  drifting  flotsam, 

A  dead  leaf  blown. 


247.     **ERE  THY  SOFT  RAY  BE  LOST 

ERE  thy  soft  ray  be  lost 
0 !  waning  star  of  morn, — 

A  host 
Of  quails  sing  in  the  corn. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  263 

Light  with  thine  ebbing  spark 
The  poet's  love -brimmed  eyes. — 

The  lark 
Climbs  sunward  to  the  skies* 

Look  downward  upon  earth 

With  eyes  the  dawn  doth  daze. — 

What  mirth 
Amid  the  golden  maize  ! 

Then  flash  my  thought  like  light 

Down  yonder,  far  away. — 
All  bright 

The  dew  shines  on  the  hay. 

Ere  her  dear  lids  uplift, 

Shine  through  them  on  her  dream. — 
Swift,  swift  I 

Behold  I  the  first  sunbeam. 


248.     NEVERMORE 

MEMORY,  what  wilt  thou  with  me  ?     Autumn  gales 

Baffle  the  bird's  flight  through  the  moaning  air; 

The  sun  hurls  wide  his  steady  beams  that  stare 
O'er  the  sere  wood  wherethro'  the  north  wind  wails. 
We  two  alone,  and  both  with  dreams  astray, 

With  locks  afloat  in  air  and  thoughts  adrift, 

When  suddenly  to  me  her  eyes  uplift 
And  her  voice  asks,  '  *  When  wast  thou  happiest  ? 

Say," 

As  soft  and  song-like  as  when  angels  chaunt, 
And  my  wan  smile  gives  answer,  else  untold, 


264  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  my  weaned  mouth  along  her  white  hand 

sips. 
No  flowers  have  scent  like  that  the  first  ones  hold, 
No  sounds  have  such  sweet  stress  as  those  that  haunt 
The  first-heard  '  *  Yes  ' '  from  the  beloved  lips. 


249.     A  FORGOTTEN  TUNE 

A  FRAIL  hand  hovering  sets  the  keys  astir 
Wan-faced  in  the  vague  twilit  rose  and  gray, 

While  like  the  wafture  of  light  wings  in  air 
A  doting  melody  begins  to  sway, 
Falters  uncertain  as  with  fear  astray 

In  this  room  rife  with  all  the  sweet  of  Her. 


And  what  is  this  suave  to-and-fro  that  goes 
Like  fondling  hands  of  my  poor  being  fain  ? 

What  would  you,  wavering  song  ?    What  longing  flows 
In  the  soft  babble  of  your  shy  refrain, 
Now  wafted  out  in  the  wide  air  to  wane 

Beyond  the  window  where  the  garden  blows  ? 


250.     SONNET 

ALL  through  the  day  down  poured  the  traitorous  flame 
And  lure  of  evil  days.     Now  the  sun's  track 
Throbs  with  its  glamour.     Close  thine  eyes,  turn 

back 

From  the  most  dire  temptation — fly  the  shame! 

Like  hail  the  burning  light  hath  downward  sped. 
Despoiled  the  hillside  vintage,  and  left  prone 
The  cornfields  of  the  valley;  the  blue  zone 

Ev'n  of  redeeming  heaven  is  ravished. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  265 

Then  blench,  and  hie  thee  soberly  to  pray'r! 
If  yesterdays  devour  the  morrows'  bliss  ? 

If  madness,  left  behind,  o'ertake  thy  way  ? 
Shalt  thou  not  slay  anew  old  memories  ? 
For  the  last  wild  assault  do  thou  prepare ! 

And,  lest  the  storm  o'erwhelm  thee,  haste  and 

pray! 


TRISTAN  CORBIERE 
(1845-1875) 

251.     LETTER  FROM  MEXICO 

*'  You  gave  the  youngster  into  my  care. — He's  dead, 
And  many  more  along  with  him,  poor  little  mate  I 

The  crew  .  .  .  there  is  none. — There's  two  or  three, 
Will  get  back  home. — It's  fate.  [so  it's  said 


*'  Nothing's  so  fine  as  a  sailor's  life  for  a  youth; 

All  the  landlubbers  pine  for  it  sure  enough — 
Save  the  discomfort.     So  now  you  may  see  for  truth 

How  prentice  life  is  rough. 


"  I  blub  as  I  write  that,  hard  old  case  as  I  be. 

I'd  have  given  my  skin  to  save  him  and  send  him 

home  .  .  . 
There's  no  sense  in  it,  I  know  .  .  .  but  don't  blame 

What  has  to  be  will  come.  [me. 


266  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

"  The  fever's  here  as  wild  as  the  carnival, 
We're  all  on  our  way  to  the  graveyard  to  draw  our 

grub. 

The  Zouave  he  calls  it — our  old  Parisian  pal — 
Transplanting  of  the  shrub, 

* '  Cheer  up !     The  world  here  cracks  like  a  fly  in  the 

hand  .  .  . 

I  found  in  his  bundle  some  keepsakes  he'd  often  kiss: 
The  portrait  of  a  girl,  Turk  slippers,  and 

*  A  present  for  dear  Sis/ 

"To  Mamma  he  bid  me  say:  that  his  pray'rs  didn't 

fail. 
To  Father:  he'd  sooner  have  died  in  some  fierce 

assault. 
Two  angels  were  there  beside  him  when  he  set  sail: 
A  soldier.     An  old  salt. ' ' 


GEORGES  BOUTELLEAU 

(1846-   ) 

252.  THE  AVENUE 

CALM  summer  eves  that  once  did  hide 
The  loving  bliss  of  man  and  maid. 

Have  kept  their  sweetness  sanctified 
Beneath  the  mingled  maple  shade. 

And  under  the  dim  leafy  arc 

That  heard  their  vows  so  fond  and  fain, 
It  seems  as  though  we  still  may  hark 

Dead  lovers  ope  their  lips  again. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  267 

The  mysteries  they  babble  low 

Stir  strange  discomfort  in  the  breast 

Of  those  that  solitary  go 

With  ancient  dreams  all  laid  to  rest. 

And  slowly  they  seek  open  air 

Where  beams  still  set  the  boughs  afire, 

Like  ag6d  crones  that  quake  to  hear 
The  kisses  of  their  old  desire. 


253.     THE  WILD  DOVES 

OVER  gray  skies  or  shining, 
Skimming  the  tall  palm-groves, 

Where  rose-tipt  briars  are  twining. 
Go  by  the  wild  gray  doves. 

Wide-winged  for  ever  wending 

If  suns  rise  up  or  fall. 
They  follow  the  unending 

Far  glory  of  them  all. 

From  every  sky  imploring 
In  torrid  climes  or  chill, 

New  summits  beyond  soaring 
And  newer  seasons  still. 

Thus  year  by  year  we  wander, 
Wild  doves  that  never  tire, 

To  find  for  ever  yonder 
Our  haven  of  desire. 


268  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


GABRIEL  VICAIRE 

(1848-1900) 

254.     DREAM  SONG 

YOU  ask  me  whom  in  dream  I  see  ? 
It  is  a  King's  daughter,  pardiel 
And  all  for  me  are  her  love  sighs. 
Away,  sweetheart,  the  moon  doth  rise. 

In  robe  of  satin  white  she  streams ; 
She  hath  a  silver  comb  that  gleams. 
The  moon  is  high  as  grass  unmown. 
Away,  sweetheart,  I  am  thine  own. 

She  hath  a  mantle  all  of  gold, 
While  my  poor  homespun's  worn  and  old. 
Away,  sweetheart,  to  Blissful  Copse. 
The  moon's  above  the  willow- tops. 

As  boys  will  snare  a  bird  with  glee. 
Her  soft  white  fingers  fold  on  me. 
The  moon  is  in  the  boughs  o'erhead. 
Away,  sweetheart,  and  weave  thy  thread 

Thanks  be  to  God,  I  well  am  ware 
The  boon  is  sweet  that  lovers  share. 
My  love  is  lovely  ;   fond  am  I. 
Away,  sweetheart,  the  moon  is  high. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  269 


255.     POOR  LIZA 

POOR  Liza  died  two  days  ago, 
And  not  a  word  foretold  her  doom. 

Now  on  a  stretcher  she  lies  low 
Set  midmost  in  the  church's  gloom. 

The  Virgin  straight  upon  her  stares 
Who  sinned  so  sore  among  the  quick. 

Now  at  her  feet  a  candle  flares, 
Set  in  a  wooden  candlestick. 

Good  folk,  new-shriven,  outward  pass 
In  fearful  h£Lste  to  leave  the  ghost. 

The  cur6  mumbles  through  the  mass. 
Lest  his  lean  steak  be  over-roast. 

For  thriftless  folk  his  pray'rs  are  brief 
That  ever  leave  the  coffers  bare. 

There's  no  one  nigh  for  sign  of  grief; 
You  well  might  think  a  dog  lay  there. 

Alone  beside  the  door  in  dread 
I  kneel  but  nearer  dare  not  go. 

I  think  of  the  dead  girl's  dear  head  ^ 

That  once  the  sunlight  gilded  so  ; 

And  of  her  eyes  like  pansies  blue 
That  were  so  soft  awhile  for  me, 


270  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Her  mouth  that  now  finds  nought  to  do, 
And  nevermore  will  smile  for  me. 

Now  all  my  life  is  torn  in  twain 
By  every  stroke  the  belfry  shakes, 

And  like  a  poplar  in  the  lane 
My  soul  within  my  body  quakes. 

Ah !     Sweet,  how  you  did  give  your  face 
In  spring-time,  cheek  and  brow  and  tress! 

O  Misery !     Is  there  any  place 
Wherein  our  hearts  find  happiness  ? 

Of  all  the  lasses  in  our  town 

They  said  you  had  the  warmest  blood. 

And  now  alone  you're  lying  down 
In  four  stout  planks  of  beechen  wood. 

Farewell,  our  frolic  gambolling! 
Farewell,  0  fairest  of  our  blooms! 

No  more  in  the  mad  dance  you'll  spring, 
Nor  trample  on  the  clumsy  grooms ! 

Your  arm  as  ivory  firm  and  smooth 
Lies  shrivelled  as  a  thistle  mown, 

Your  supple  throat's  as  black,  in  sooth, 
As  all  the  sin  that  you  have  known. 

Your  lips  that  were  as  roses  red. 
And  always  quick  with  love's  delight, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  271 

May  now  no  more  be  opened; 

Your  laughing  eyes  are  sealed  in  night. 

Now  all  your  comeliness  is  spent 
As  any  shepherd's  burnt-out  fire, 

And  you  are  gone  like  smoke  that's  blent 
In  air  above  the  belfry  spire. 

Poor  soul  forlorn,  say  have  you  had 
A  glimpse  of  the  good  God  on  high  ? 

Are  you  in  Hell,  and  are  you  clad 
In  flames  that  from  the  furnace  fly  ? 

Does  burning  sulphur  sheathe  your  head, 
Or  mitre  made  of  molten  ore  ? 

Speak,  speak!  and  is  it  true  the  dead 
Die,  death  on  death,  for  evermore  ? 

If  nine  days'  fast  may  win  reprieve 
From  that  dark  way  you're  walking  in. 

And  for  your  soul  white  raiment  weave. 
Nay,  now  will  I  straightway  begin. 

O'er  flood  and  forest  I  will  fare 

With  bleeding  feet  and  heart  that's  riven, 

To  Notre  Dame  de  Fourvieres 
And  pray  to  Her  to  be  forgiven. 

Thrice  blessed  is  the  hand  that  stirs 
Her  rosary  of  golden  beads. 


272  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

One  single  holy  word  of  Hers 
Can  wash  us  pure  of  evil  deeds, 

And  white  as  milk.     Her  nod  can  slay 
The  wickedness  whereby  we  re  lost. 

And  I  will  give  Her  on  Her  day 
A  summer  gown,  and  one  for  frost; 

And  at  the  fair  I'll  buy  anon 
A  windmill  for  Her  Jesukin, 

With  ivory  sails  He'll  blow  upon, 
And  laugh  with  joy  to  see  them  spin. 


AUGUSTE  ANGELLIER 

(1848-1911) 

256.     SONNET  DEDICATORY 

LIKE  royal  galleys  be  my  verse  here  written 

That  trail  their  golden  trappings  thro'  the  deep, 
Where  under  a  silken  dais  with  lilies  litten 

Upon  an  ivory  bed  the  Queen  doth  sleep. 
And  set  proud  words  like  gonfalons  appearing 

Triumphant  from  their  cordage  as  they  go ; 
May  lutes  and  cymbals  make  melodious  hearing 

With  Love's  own  viols  on  their  decks  below; 
May  it  be  all  ashine,  with  loud  rhymes  blended 

Like  salvos  from  the  bulwarks;  may  it  drift 
With  tumult  of  immortal  airs  attended; 

May  every  mast  green  laurel-leaves  uplift : 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  278 

For  through  Time's  spaces  and  its  deeps  uncharted 
It  bears  thy  dear  name  on,  0  royal-hearted  I 

257.     SONNET 

THUS  shall  we  live  our  separate  lives  unknit, 

And  vain  appeals  shall  flesh  and  spirit  make ; 

Never  one  divine  instant  shall  we  slake 
Our  forlorn  human  passion  infinite. 
Then  when  the  last  long  sleep  we  shall  have  won, 

They  will  bury  thy  dear  body  far  from  me ; 

We  shall  be  exiled  in  eternity 
As  erst  we  were  beneath  the  shining  sun 

And  last  of  all  each  most  unhappy  name 
On  different  marbles  shall  the  graver  mark, 

And  the  strong  love  that  turned  our  souls  to  flame 
Shall  be  put  out  in  the  unending  dark ; 

And,  kindling  nought,  we  shall  leave  less  behind 

Than  any  nest  wherein  the  birds  are  kind. 


JEAN  RICHEPIN 
(1849-        ) 

258.     THE  SONG  OF  THE  GYPSY  BOY 

THE  hawthorn  blossom's  white  in  May. 

As  I  went  by  I  snatched  a  spray.  y 

I  took  my  little  dirk-blade  bare.  ^ 

Hi,  there! 

With  my  blade  bare 
I  shore  the  spray 

High  up  in  air  I 


/ 


274  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

I  wade  the  brook,  a  line  to  throw 
For  silver  fish.     I'll  show  you  how 

When  in  the  sun  my  dirk  shines  bare. 

Hi,  there! 

With  my  blade  bare 
I'll  show  you  how 

The  fish  to  snare! 

When  I  am  tall,  for  gold  I'll  ken 

To  make  a  spear  shall  slaughter  men, 

All  from  this  little  dirk  I  bear. 

Hi,  there! 

With  my  blade  bare 
I'll  riddle  men 

From  heel  to  hair! 

When  I  am  old,  and  bearded  gray 
For  staff  I'll  take  my  hawthorn  spray, 

For  handle  this  dirk-hilt  I  bear. 

Hi,  there! 

With  my  blade  bare 
Shall  end  the  spray. 

Beware !     Beware ! 


259.     PROUD  SONNET 

THE  load  we  bear  of  trouble  is  self-made. 

Life  is  for  fighting,  and  amid  the  rout 

Of  soldier,  robber,  traitor,  murderous  lout, 
Hapless  goes  he  unarmed,  so  fate's  obeyed! 
Then  get  you  corselets  that  will  turn  the  blade 

Against  the  steel  sheath  of  your  bosom  stout. 

Let  each  forge  his  own  armour  for  the  bout, 
And  saints  wear  bristles  lest  they  be  waylaid. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  275 

So  I  may  meet  my  murderers  without  dread, 
I  don  the  hair  and  set  the  mail  thereon, 

And  dare  who  will  to  strike  their  felon  steel ! 
My  mail  is  perfect  pride  unconquered. 
The  hairy  pelt  into  my  flesh  has  grown: 
You  who  would  stab  my  heart,  search  where 

you  will! 


260.     THE  SONG  OF  THE  BEGGING  CRIPPLE 

WORTHY  masters,  worthy  wives, 
Holy  Mary  bless  your  lives. 

Help  the  crippled  beggar  frail. 

Lord  above  and  Mary,  Hail ! 
Spare  a  mite  for  me  1 

Worthy  masters,  worthy  wives, 
Charity  the  sinner  shrives, 

God  for  gifts  shall  make  you  hale. 

Lord  above  and  Mary,  Hail ! 
Spare  a  mite  for  me  I 

Worthy  masters,  worthy  wives, 
Those  unkind  to  broken  lives 

God  shall  smite  their  crops  with  hail. 

Lord  above  and  Mary,  Hail  I 
Spare  a  mite  for  me  1 

Worthy  masters,  worthy  wives, 
Cow  not  calves  nor  woman  thrives 

In  her  labour  if  I  rail. 

Lord  above  and  Mary,  Hail! 
Spare  a  mite  for  me  I 


276  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Worthy  masters,  worthy  wives, 
Spare  a  penny  each  that  thrives 

So  to  buy  you  bliss  for  bale. 

Lord  above  and  Mary,  Hail ! 
Spare  a  mite  for  me  I 


261.     THE  BEGGAR'S  LOOK 

THE  old  tramp  on  the  prowl  for  bread 
Looked  at  me  and  nothing  said, 

With  his  bony  hand  thrust  out 
Suddenly,  nor  deigned  to  tout 

For  my  pity.     Thankless,  grim, 
He  took  the  penny  offered  him. 

But  his  wolfish  eyes  of  gray 
Spake  to  me.     I  heard  them  say, 

"Think  you  for  a  greasy  brown 
I  will  let  you  tread  me  down  ? 

*  *  You  but  show,  with  this  mean  dole 
Kindness  to  your  own  poor  soul. 

' '  When  you  give  me  this  round  thing 
'Tis  yourself  you're  comforting. 

"  Sharing  thus  your  store  of  pelf, 
You  owe  thanks  unto  yourself. 

' '  A  penny  for  an  old  man  bowed  I 
There's  a  deed  to  make  you  proud! 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  277 

"  Proud 's  the  day  when  you  with  pence 
Brand  your  brother's  indigence! 

"  For  your  penny,  it  were  fit 
If  I  straightway  spat  on  it. 

"  Though  I  take  and  keep  it  whole, 
Think  not  I'll  forgive  the  dole." 

Thus  his  gray  eyes  on  me  set 
Spake  in  a  dumb  alphabet. 

I  looked  back  as  mute  as  he 
Desperate  in  misery. 

Then  I  shut  my  purse  and  strode 
Like  a  felon  down  the  road, 

Knowing  well  the  old  man's  eyes 
Saw  my  guilt,  and  spake  no  lies. 


LOUIS  TIERCELIN 

(1849-       ) 

262.     SUNSET  AT  KERAZUR 

GRAY  clouds,  and  blue  clouds,  and  clouds  all  full 

of  roses, 
To  what  country  far  away  at  evening  do  you  fly. 
Glancing  in  the  twilit  mirrors  furtively  and  shy 
Of  gray  waves,  and  blue  waves,  and  waves  all  full 

of  roses  ? 


278  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Thus  in  the  silence,  very  furtive,  very  shy, 
All  alone  with  you  aloft  far  away  they  fly, 
My  gray  dreams,  and  blue  dreams,  and  dreams  all 

full  of  roses. 


BOOK  VII 


TO 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 


ARTHUR  RIMBAUD 
(1851-1891) 

263.     SENSATION 

ON  sunny  summer  evenings  I  shall  wander  down  a 

bridle-path, 
The  tall  corn-blades  will  fondle  me  the  while  I 

tramp  the  turf; 
And  dreaming,  I  shall  feel  the  chilly  sweetness  on 

my  idle  path. 
And  as  a  wave  the  wind  shall  lave  my  naked  brow 

like  surf. 

I  shall  not  speak  a  word,  no  thought  shall  fill  the 

heart  or  head  of  me. 
But  love  shall  flow  and  fill  my  soul  with  its  o'er- 

brimming  tide ; 
And  I  shall  wander  far  away,  a  gipsy  in  the  tread  of 

me. 
As  happy  there  with  Nature  fair  as  lover  with  his 

bride. 

GEORGES  RODENBACH 

(1855-1898) 

264.     "IN  TINY  TOWNSHIPS  ..." 

IN  tiny  townships  when  the  morning  drowses 
The  belfries  chime  the  time  in  the  still  haze. 
Where  dawn  looks  down  with  sisterly  soft  gaze. 

The  belfries  chime  the  time  above  the  houses. 
281 


282  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

With  a  pale  music  ere  the  world  arouses 

Each  chime  a  drifting  blossom  downward  strays 
Over  the  gable-stairs  of  the  dim  houses 

As  though,  upgathering  their  misty  flowers, 
The  wind  had  made  a  posy  of  sweet  rhymes 
That  tumble  downward  when  a  belfry  chimes, 

In  faded  garlands  falling  in  soft  showers 

In  lilies  pale  of  far-away  lost  hours 

From  the  dead  forehead  of  forgotten  times, 

With  chill  sweet  petals,  sightless,  in  slow  showers. 


265.     GENTLENESS  OF  EVENING 

GENTLENESS  of  evening!     In  the  room  with  no 

lamp  shining 
The  twilight  is  as  gentle  as  a  righteous  life  at  end; 
And   the   shadow   very   slowly,   very   slowly   steals, 

untwining 
Like   a  wraith   of  mingled   smoke-wrack   in   the 

ceiling  pale  to  blend. 

All's  asleep.     The  dusk  is  smiling  like  a  righteous 

life  at  ending, 
And  in  the  clouded  mirror  with  a  wave  and^farewell 

smile. 
It  seems  as  though  you  saw  your  own  shy  spirit 

slowly  blending — 
That  there  in  part  you  waned  away  and  died  a 

little  while. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  283 


JEAN  MOREAS 
(1856-1910) 


266.     A  YOUNG  GIRL'S  SONG 

THE  fennels  said,  "  He  is  so  fond, 
You  hold  his  foolish  heart  in  bond; 
Make  ready  for  his  home-coming." 
The  fennels  tell  a  guilesome  thing. 
(May  God  have  pity  on  my  soul!) 

The  daisies  said,  "  0 !  prithee  say 
Why  did  you  give  your  heart  away 
For  his  that's  old  in  trespassing  ? " 
Too  late,  too  late  your  questioning. 
(May  God  have  pity  on  my  soul!) 

The  sages  said,  * '  Wait  not  your  swain 
Who  long  in  other  arms  hath  lain. ' ' 
O  Sages,  your  ill-boding  leaf 
I'll  braid  about  my  brow  for  grief. 
(May  God  have  pity  on  my  soul!) 

267.     ELEGY 

MORE  deep  than  darts  from  Turkish  strings 
Love's  wanton  archery  doth  hurt 
To  rustic  lads  and  royal  kings. 

For  such  a  sloth  of  limbs  inert 
God  had  left  David's  body  rent 
Who  ever  held  his  loins  girt. 


284  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Like  Solomon  grown  indolent 
Who  erst  a  prophet  greatly  wise 
Was  at  the  last  of  glory  shent. 

Sly  mouth  and  visage,  with  soft  eyes 
That  hide  fine  snares  of  shamefulness 
And  a  foul  grave  whence  none  arise : 

Ev'n  Agamemnon  knew  such  stress; 
When  Menelaus  wild  Helen  saw 
Likewise  did  he  grow  comfortless. 

Pol3rxen  did  Achilles  awe; 
For  Omphale  did  Hercules 
The  soft  wool  round  the  distaff  draw. 

So  Delecus  for  Stratonice 
Became  a  slave ;  of  Cressid  fond 
Did  Troilus  forget  all  ease. 

Unto  a  swarthy  visage  bond 

Brave  Antony  his  blade  let  rust 

And  heard  no  more  the  trumpet  sound. 

Prudent  in  all  save  his  own  lust, 
Aurelius  for  his  Faustine  fair 
Did  trail  his  laurels  in  the  dust. 

So  am  I  held  by  her  whose  hair 
Is  fairer  than  is  gold  spun  fine. 
(Alas!  the  hard  heart  she  doth  bear). 

So  hapless  is  this  love  of  mine, 

No  more  can  my  weak  breath  be  blown 

To  swell  with  song  the  reed  divine 

Once  filled  all  France  with  my  renown. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  285 


268.     "  CAST  DOWN  THESE  LILIES  .  .  .  " 

CAST  down  these  lilies  and  these  roses  flaring, 
Let  flutes  fall  dumb  and  all  the  voices  sigh 

That  fain  would  swell  for  me  the  flood  ensnaring 
Of  my  desires  that  on  the  skyline  die. 

No  more  upon  me  thy  sweet  breath  be  pouring, 
Fix  not  on  me  the  splendour  of  thy  gaze. 

For  I  am  burning  like  a  moth  upsoaring 
Amid  the  furnace  of  the  stars'  hot  rays. 

Tempt  me  no  more  with  thy  caresses  clinging, 
Withhold  the  kindling  wine  of  thy  hot  breath 

From  thy  mouth's  amphora  for  ever  springing; 
Let  my  heart  slumber,  let  my  heart  find  death. 

My  heart  is  still  as  one  in  coffin  wasted. 
In  all  the  silence  of  its  new-found  ease ; 

With  idle  sorrow  for  a  boon  untasted. 
Mar  not  the  quiet  of  its  pardoned  peace. 


HENRI-CHARLES  READ 

(1857-1876) 

269.     "I  THINK  THAT  GOD  .  .  .  " 

I  THINK  that  God  when  He  did  mould 
My  being,  with  intent  to  spare. 

Gave  me  a  heart  already  old 
Ere  I  drew  air. 


286  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  thriftily  He  set  to  beat 

Within  my  breast  a  heart  outworn, 

That  in  old  life  had  known  defeat 
Ere  I  was  born. 

It  hath  survived  a  hundred  fights, 

And  bears  a  thousand  wounds  unhealed, 

But  the  fell  arm,  the  blade  that  smites 
Are  still  concealed. 

A  hundred  passions  throbbing  once 

In  bygone  ages  move  its  will ; 
Dead  flames,  dead  dreams,  dead  sunken  suns 

Can  stir  it  still. 

Still  burning  with  bequeathed  fire 

For  shapely  women  perfumed 
With  sweetness  of  all  wild  desire 

Of  love  long  dead. 

O  torment  of  most  nether  hell ! 

O  bitterness  of  burning  doom! 
To  ache  with  love  unquenchable, 

Nor  know  for  whom. 


EDMOND  HARAUCOURT 

(1857-        ) 

270.     THE  LOVELIEST  VERSES 

THE  loveliest  verses  are  those  that  we  never  can 

write. 
They  are  blossoms  of  dream  whose  odour  the  soul 

respires, 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  287 

Or  smiles  of  a  phantom,  or  sparks  from  eternal 

fires, 
Or  voices  borne  up  from  the  plain  to  the  mountain 

height. 

All  space  is  haunted  with  poems  thro'  viewless  ways, 
A  forbidden  country,  an  Eden's  inviolate  plot 
Where  the  sin  of  the  art  of  the  singer  may  trespass 

not; 

Yet  there  if  thou  lovest  me  well  thine  eyes  may  gaze. 

Some  eve  when  the  fervour  of  love  shall  our  souls 

unite. 
In  silence — a  silence  that  swoons  in  the  twilit  air. 
Come,  lean  thy  soul  o'er  my  soul,  and  read  thou 

there 
The  verses  I  heard,  I  heard,  but  could  never  write. 


AUGUSTE  GAUD 

(1857-       ) 

271.     THE  SONG  OF  THE  RAIN 

I  HAVE  drunk  of  rains  that  drench 
The  holly-boughs'  dark  blind. 

I  love  a  comely  wench 
Whose  eyes  are  kind. 

I  have  drunk  of  dews  that  drown 
The  heart  of  lilies  frail. 

The  bridal  bliss  hath  flown: 
O  curlews  wail  I 


288  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

I  have  drunk  of  rills  that  go 
Glad-singing  thro'  the  grass. 

Farewell  gold  hair,  and  0 ! 
Farewell  my  lass! 

Within  my  vines'  own  leaves 

I  have  drunk  the  sun's  red  blood. 

My  heart  no  longer  grieves: 
Ah,  sleep  is  good! 

All  Life  and  Love's  a  snare. 

I  have  drunk  the  drops  of  cloud 
Beneath  the  turret  where 

They  weep  aloud. 


ALBERT  SAMAIN 
(1858-1900) 

272,     "  THERE  SOMETIMES  COME  STRANGE 
EVENINGS  ..." 

THERE  sometimes  come  strange  evenings  when  the 

flowers'  souls  awaken. 
When  the  languid  air  seems  filled  with  rue  for 

footsteps  gone  astray, 
When  our  hearts,  however  secret,  are  by  heavy  waves 

o'ertaken 
That  slowly  reach  the  lips  in  sighs  and  ebb  their 

life  away. 
It  is  on  these  strange  evenings  when  the  flowers' 

souls  awaken 
That  forth  I  fare  as  tenderly  as  any  woman  may. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  289 

There  sometimes  come  clear  mornings  to  a  crown  of 

roses  climbing 
When  the  soul  leaps  out  with  joy  like  living  water 

from  the  wild, 
When  the  heart  is  like  a  heaven  full  of  Easter  bells 

a-chiming 
And  the  flesh  again  is  spotless  and  the  spirit  undefiled. 
It  is  on  these  clear  mornings  to  a  crown  of  roses  climbing 
That  forth  I  fare  as  joyously  as  any  happy  child. 

There   sometimes    come   dark   mornings   when   the 

heart  of  self  o'ersated, 
Feels  the  pains  of  oldest  age  and  with  its  spoil 

would  fain  retire, 
When  the  past  seems  like  a  faded  scene  whereon 

there  moves  belated, 
A  pitiful  old  mummer  mouthing  shameful  things 

and  dire. 
It  is  on  these  dark  mornings,  with  the  load  of  self 

o'er- weighted. 
That  forth  I  fare  as  bowed  of  gait  as  any  grey- 
haired  sire. 

There  are  sometimes  nights  of  doubting  when  the 

cruel  anguish  rends  you. 
When  adown  the  slowly  winding  stair  the  tortured 

soul  is  led, 
When,  all  unforeseen,  the  final  turn  o'er  vacancy 

suspends  you. 
And  the  spirit  quails  before  the  pit  and  turns  away 

in  dread. 
It  is  on  nights  of  doubting  when  the  cruel  anguish 

rends  you. 
That  forth  I  fare  in  darkness  like  a  spirit  from  the 

dead. 

T 


290  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


273.     AUTUMN 

SLOWLY  we  go  with  the  old  dog  close  behind  us, 

Tread  once  again  on  the  road  too  well  we  know. 
Red  thro'  the  leafy  aisle  the. dying  sunbeams  filter; 

Dark  on  the  farther  sky  the  grieving  women  go. 
As  on  some  cloister  garth,  green  and  cell-surrounded, 

Still  is  the  air  with  a  sadness  self-indrawn; 
Each  golden  leaf  over-ripened  flutters  downward 

Like  a  phantom  memory,  slow-falling  on  the  lawn. 

Silence  walks  between.  .  .  .  Hearts  that  furtively  are 

scheming. 

Weary  of  their  wayfaring  and  ripe  for  new  emprise. 
Brood  on  their  secret  hopes  of  sighting  the  old  haven 

Whence  they  set  sail  with  the  morning  in  their  eyes. 
But  all  the  woods  to-night  are  so  fulfilled  of  sorrow 

That  ev'n  our  hearts  are  moved  to  lay  all  self  aside; 
Soft  are  our  stifled  words  that  whisper  in  the  twilight 

Of  dead  illusions  as  of  children  that  have  died. 


274.     A  VIOL'S  PLAINT 

MY  heart  that  dreads  what  time  may  bring, 
Lies  in  thy  hands  a  bird-like  thing 
That  flutters  wild  with  fear  of  thee. 

So  shy  is  he,  so  loth  to  lie. 
Let  thy  words  too  be  low  and  shy, 
If  thou  wilt  hold  him  trustfully. 

A  single  word  will  make  him  grieve, 
A  look  alone  will  make  him  heave 
With  bitter  anguish  of  despair. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  291 

For  at  the  words  thy  sweet  mouth  saith 
He  feels  the  flight  of  thy  soft  breath 
And  trembles  like  a  plume  in  air. 

He  follows,  hovering  near  alway, 
Thee  wheresoever  thou  dost  stray 

With  soft  smooth  throat  and  trailing  gown, 

So  furtive  in  his  flight  and  swift. 
So  fickle  are  the  wings  that  lift. 
Thou  touchest  him  and  he  is  flown. 

And  when  this  nearness  thou  shalt  flout 
Until  he  bleed  and  life  ebb  out, 

Thou  shalt  know  nothing  of  his  pain ; 

So  slight  the  touch,  thou  shalt  not  heed 
How  on  a  night  his  heart  did  bleed 
And  on  thy  soft  glove  left  a  stain. 

275.     CLEOPATRA 

DEEP  night  hangs  heavily  on  Nilos'  stream. 
Under  the  burning  starlight,  She,  grown  pale 
Drives  off  her  handmaidens,  and  of  the  veil 

With  a  wide  shameless  gesture  rends  the  seam, 

Flaunting  her  love-filled  body  in  wild  bliss 
On  the  high  terrace  like  a  rounded  grape 
Swollen  to  ripeness;  and  her  naked  shape 

Writhes  like  a  serpent  in  the  warm  air's  kiss. 

Her  wild  eyes  shoot  out  lightnings.     She  hath  willed 
The  world  with  her  sweet  perfume  shall  be  filled.  .  .  . 

Dark  flower  of  sex  on  the  night's  vastness  shaking! 
The  Sphinx  unmoving  on  the  insensate  sand, 
Glows  thro'  his  granite  like  a  burning  brand, 

And  feels  the  unending  desert  round  him  quaking. 


292  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


276.     VIGIL 

TO  muse.     In  the  void  of  night  to  thrill  like  the 

rushes!  .  .  . 

To  be  as  a  flame,  pure,  subtle,  and  quick  with  light; 
And,    breathing   the   air    of   the    hovering   Thought 

angelic, 

Beware,  as  a  God's,  of  our  mortal  brows  grown 
To  spur  heroic  blood  into  noble  action ;         [bright. 

To  spurn  ignoble  gauds,  and  the  tinsel  snare; 
To  put  on  pride  as  a  coat  of  shining  armour, 

And  leap  from  earth  to  the  threshold  of  endless  air ! 

To  feel  within,  like  a  stream  of  the  sea  down-pouring, 

The  singing  tide  of  the  universal  soul. 
To  hear  in  the  heart  the  wings  of  the  great  archangels 

Beating  as  Ocean  beats  on  a  hidden  shoal ; 
To  see  like  Solomon,  girt  with  a  royal  splendour. 

In  pomp  of  gold,  and  perfume,  and  precious  stones, 
A  life's  long  task  bear  down  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba, 

To  greet  us  set  like  Kings  on  our  royal  thrones  1 


ANATOLE  LE  BRAZ 

(1859-        ) 

277.     THE  SONG  OF  AHES 

I  AM  the  Sea  made  Woman.     My  long  hair 
Is  blown  as  balm  upon  the  world's  wide  space. 
There  is  no  beauty  on  high  heaven's  face 

Save  as  my  eyes  are  mirrors  to  it  there. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  298 

My  gold  flanks  lull  the  sunbeams ;  my  arms  bear 
The  weary  eyes  to  slumber.     I  brought  grace 
And  sense  of  godhead  unto  man;  the  race 

Of  the  first  Gods  rose  from  my  bosom  fair. 


0  man,  thy  Gods  are  deaf,  thy  pray'r  denied. 
As  one  that  endeth  all,  come  take  my  tide; 

I  have  love's  boon  to  give,  love's  balm  to  spill. 
Leave  on  the  wind  thy  wandering  sail  adrift. 
No  more,  no  more  those  weary  lids  shall  lift 

Whereon  the  clear  sea's  kisses  now  lie  still. 


CHARLES  VAN  LERBERGHE 

(1861-1907) 

278.     OFFERING  TO  A  DEAD  FRIEND 

I  BRING  these  flowers,  these  pure  white  flow'rs,  to 

you  in  your  night, 
For  they  are  light. 


To  your  heart  that  slumbers,  your  eyes  that  see  not, 

I  offer  these, 
For  they  are  peace. 


To  your  voice  now  faint  in  the  mighty  wind  of  the 

air  you  drew: 
They  are  silence  too. 


294  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 
(1862-        ) 

279.     THE  SEVEN  MAIDS  OF  ORLAMONDE 

THE  seven  maids  of  Orlamonde, 
Whenas  the  fairy  lifeless  lay, 

The  seven  maids  of  Orlamonde 
Went  groping  for  a  way. 

And  they  have  lit  their  seven  lamps, 
And  opened  up  the  turret  stair, 

Thrown  open  wide  four  hundred  doors 
And  found  no  daylight  there. 

Then  come  they  to  the  sounding  caves, 
And  downward  o'er  the  rocky  floor. 

And  there  they  find  a  golden  key 
Within  a  lockit  door. 

They  see  the  Ocean  thro'  the  seams. 
And  fear  of  death  doth  fleer  their  wit. 

Upon  the  lockit  door  they  smite 
But  dare  not  open  it. 


GREGOIRE  LE  ROY 

(1862-        ) 

280.     GRANNY  SPINS 

AT  her  wheel  the  old,  old  granny 
Tells  of  things  as  old  as  she; 
Thro'  drowsy  lids  she  seems  to  be 

A  child  that  spins  at  a  toy  jenny. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  295 

The  flax  is  gold,  and  white's  her  hair. 

The  old  crone  weaves  it,  very  slowly; 

That  she  may  hark,  she  bends  her  lowly 
Over  the  wheel  that  speaks  her  fair. 

Her  right  hand  turns  the  wheel  alway, 
And  with  the  left  the  flax  is  spun ; 
She  thinks  herself  a  little  one 

That  turns  and  turns  the  wheel  in  play. 

The  flax  she  spins  is  tawny  gold ; 

She  sees  it  and  it  seems  her  hair ; 

And  now  she's  dancing  at  the  fair, 
As  round  and  round  the  wheel  is  roll'd. 

'Tis  smoothly  now  the  wheel  is  plying, 
Smooth  the  flax  spins  by  above  her; 
Now  she  hears  an  ancient  lover 

Murmur  how  for  her  he's  dying. 

Now  the  wheel's  last  turn  is  done; 

Empty  hands  before  her  spread: 

Her  love-stories  like  the  thread 
Of  the  flax  have  all  been  spun. 


STUART  MERRILL 
(1863-191S) 

281.     EASTER  SONG 

MY  soul's  a  belfry  full  of  bells, 

With  warbling  birds  behind  its  bars! 
I  see  the  softly  mirrored  stars 

That  tremble  in  the  glassy  wells. 


296  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

My  soul's  a  holy  place  enshrin'd, 
My  soul 's  a  bower  all  in  leaf ! 
The  little  children  weaned  of  grief 

Go  wafting  songs  a-down  the  wind. 

My  soul  is  full  of  Archangels, 
And  full  of  star-y-pointing  flight! 
I  hear  the  flail  of  Fates  that  smite 

The  hoarded  grain  with  secret  spells. 

My  soul  is  all  a-brim  with  bliss, 
My  soul  is  full  of  Gods  divine ! 
O  Love,  come  bind  these  eyes  of  mine. 

And  lead  me  where  thy  pathway  is! 


282.  "  MY  BROW  IS  PALE  UPON  THY  KNEES  " 

MY  brow  is  pale  upon  thy  knees 

With  petals  of  dead  roses  hung; 
O  autumn  bride,  draw  near  my  side 

Or  e'er  thy  knell  be  rung! 

How  tender  is  thy  touch  that  soothes 

The  weary  thoughts  that  round  me  cling! 

Lo !  crowns  do  shine  on  sires  of  mine — 
Lift  up  thine  eyes,  and  sing. 

Now  rock  me  with  thy  lullabies, 

And  sound  of  songs  that  erst  were  sweet 

When  helmed  in  gold  those  kings  of  old 
Swooned  at  their  ladies'  feet. 

And  while  those  dead  times  live  again 

In  music  of  thy  simple  chords, 
They  shall  be  swelled  like  horns  once  held 

Amid  the  dance  of  swords. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  2d7 

And  I  shall  think  I  fain  would  die 
Amid  that  rose-filled  robe  of  thine, 

Too  loth,  alack!  to  win  me  back 
The  kingdom  once  was  mine. 


HENRI  DE  REGNIER 

(1864-        ) 

283.     APPARITION 

THE  sea-hooves  whiten  on  the  far  horizon. 
Behold !     Now  they  are  on  us.     The  wind  fiies  on 
These  herded  stallions  with  his  whip  that  urges 
The  savage  anger  of  stampeding  surges. 
Behold !     This  stumbles,  and  that  one  on-drifting 
After  his  fellow,  sullen,  sly,  and  lifting 
High  hooves  above  the  fallen,  leaps,  is  riven 
And  falls  in  turn ;  an  unseen  spur  is  driven 
Into  the  flanks  of  the  mad  beast  that  follows. 
That  charges  neighing  and  fills  up  the  hollows 
With  roaring  wind  and  noise  of  waters  steaming. 
O I  steeds  of  storm,  O I  foam  of  white  manes 

streaming ! 
I  have  stood  to  watch,  'mid  bitter  wind,  uprightly 
The  unending  race  of  sea-hooves  plunging  whitely, 
And  still  I  wait  till  one  wild  steed  shall  blunder 
Out  from  the  host,  and.  with  sheathed  wings  that 

sunder 
In  showers  of  sea-rain  to  my  side  come  fawning 
A  spume-fleet  Pegasus  of  Ocean's  spawning. 


298  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


284.     THE  SECRET 

IF  thou  wouldst  speak  unto  my  grief,  be  wary; 

Seek  not  to  know  wherefore  she  doth  so  weep, 
Nor  why  her  gaze  is  downcast  and  most  chary 

And  ever  on  the  flow'rless  way  doth  keep. 

To  ease  her  pain,  her  silence  and  her  sorrow. 
Tempt  not  benumbed  forgetfulness  to  show 

The  shapes  of  some  lost  love  or  pride  or  morrow 
Whose  visage  bears  the  shade  of  long  ago. 

With  speech  of  sun  and  trees  and  fountains  woo  her, 
Of  light-filled  seas  and  shady  woods  at  rest 

Wherefrom  the  sky  draws  up  the  wan  moon  to  her, 
And  all  fair  things  whereby  wide  eyes  are  blest. 

Tell  her  how  in  the  spring  the  rose  blooms  gladly. 
And  gently  take  her  two  hands  and  so  sigh : 

The  only  memory  whereof  none  feel  sadly 

Is  shape  and  sound  of  beauteous  things  gone  by. 


285.     EXPERIENCE 

I  WALKED  behind  two  lovers,  their  kisses  hearing. 
And  watched  the  loth  withdrawal  of  forms  shown 

black 
On  the  soft-hued  sky  that  the  tender  Autumn  was 

wearing 
Like  the  pale,  pearl-gray  that  covers  a  sea-mew's 

back. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  299 

And  while  they  wended,  full  near  to  the  sea's  wild  riot 
Hurling  her  waves  where  the  stones  of  the  cliff  ran  out, 

My  heart  ungrudging,  unbitter,  knew  no  disquiet 
Of  sorrow,  or  strife,  or  a  futile  passion  of  doubt. 

They  wended  along  in  their  beautiful  dream  united, 
Blent  into  one  and  tasting  their  life's  brief  boon; 

They  moved  in  the  Present  and  I  in  the  Past  benighted, 
And  I  knew  the  word  that  Chimera  would  tell  them 

soon. 

286.     ODELETTE 

I  MIGHT  have  made  all  men  aware 

What  Love  was  mine 

When  full  noon  filled  the  air 

With  warm  sunshine 

From  summer's  red  gold  that  such  joy  doth 

That  his  laughter  sounds  shrill  [distil 

As  one  drunken  with  wine. 

I  might  have  cried  out: 

My  Love  is  all  gladness,  behold 

The  mantle  of  purple  that  down  to  his  feet 

About  him  doth  fold! 

His  hands  are  replete 

With  roses  a-flutter  that  scatter  their  sweet; 

The  sky  hath  no  cloud 

Above  his  warm  dwelling  of  marble  that  seems 

As  a  blue-vein6d  flesh  in  its  whiteness 

Most  smooth  to  the  mouth.  .  .  . 

'Tis  otherwise: 

I  dress  him  in  a  homespun  pleat, 
His  mantle  drags  about  his  feet; 
There  hardly  lies 


800  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

A  smile  about  his  lips  as  he  doth  fleet, 
And  when  he  sings  it  is  an  air 
So  dim  that  no  man  turns  to  hear 
Nor  gather  up  his  song-bud  blown 
That  fills  the  twilight  full  of  scent; 
He  hath  not  garden,  roof  or  tent, 
But  wears  in  truth  a  beggar's  wear 
Lest  all  his  wealth  of  love  be  known. 


287.     ON  THE  STRAND 

LIE  on  the  sand  and  thro'  thy  fingers  drain 
Sieve-like  the  pale  sea's  silting  grain  by  grain, 
The  lovely  sand  the  sunlight  turns  to  gold ; 
Then,  ere  thou  drop  thy  lids,  again  behold 
The  sea  harmonious  and  the  stainless  sky. 
And  when  thou  hearest  thro'  thy  fingers  sigh 
The  last  light  grain  of  silted  sand  out-flown 
Ere  thou  uplift  thy  lids,  think  how  thine  own 
Brief  life  is  but  a  handful  of  blown  sand 
To  fall  and  mingle  on  the  eternal  strand. 


FRANCIS  VIEL^-GRIFFIN 

(1864-       ) 

288.     SONG 

IN  my  hands  I  have  taken  the  rain  that  fell, — 
The  drops  that  are  warm  as  are  tears  that  rain ; 

I  have  drunk  of  the  draught  as  a  witch 's  spell 
For  rueful  bane. 

That  so  my  soul  in  your  soul  should  dwell. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  301 

I  have  taken  the  seed  from  the  granary  shed — 
The  seed  that  scatters  like  hailstones  lost; 

I  have  sown  in  the  furrows  all  hardened 
With  morning  frost, 

That  so  your  mouth  should  not  lack  for  bread. 

I  have  taken  the  grasses  and  leaves  that  fade — 
The  leaves  and  grasses  whose  life  is  spent; 

Of  these  a  smooth  high  flame  have  I  made 
And  redolent, 

Ta  cheer  your  vigil  of  dawn  delayed. 

With  your  laughing  eyes  and  your  glossy  hair, 

The  shame  of  your  face  and  your  mouth's  red  rim, 

I  have  made  a  bewildering  dawn  to  flare 

With  beams  of  joy  and  a  harp's  loud  hymn  .  .  . 

And  the  day  as  a  hive  hums  thro'  the  air! 


ANDRE  FONTAINAS 

(1865-        ) 

289.     SONNET 

SEA-ROAD  a-tremble  where  the  dawnlight  swoons 
On  far-off  ocean,  shall  we  find  at  dark 
Our  ships  that  prop  the  blue  sidereal  arc 

Have  come  to  land  beside  thy  loud  lagoons  ? 

City  of  flowers  and  victory  whose  runes 

Speak  never  of  man's  sorrow,  but  still  hark 
The  mirth  of  happy  sea-folk,  whose  priests  mark 

With  pure  libation  nought  but  happy  moons! 


302  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Keep  thou  life's  pride  and  love's,  the  gentle  light 
Of  thine  unsullied  musing.     With  proud  gaze 
Confront  the  sea,  the  citadel.     Behold 
The  sombre  masts  that  shadow  the  sea's  might. 
The  loud  wind's  threat  to  thy  fair  garden  ways. 
And  ware  the  cloud  wherefrom  the  thunder's 

roll'd. 


ANDRE-FERDINAND  HEROLD 

(1865-        ) 

290.  SONNET 

BELOVED,  all  the  dust  has  turned  to  flower, 
The  frolic  Centaurs  like  spurred  cavalry 
Charge  on;  the  ships,  sail  sunward,  quit  the  quay 

Where  winter  through  they  shrank  from  the  sea's  power. 

Now  are  the  temple  columns  made  a  tower 
Of  trailing  roses  and  convolvuli; 
And  Dryads  from  each  happy  forest  tree 

Hold  smooth  white  hands  out  in  the  glad  green  bower. 

Come  1  for  the  ways  with  flowers  are  aflame. 
The  lily's  white,  the  poppy's  hue  of  shame. 

Or  the  blue  violet  wilt  thou  cull  for  pledge  ? 
Now  hill  and  vale  in  joyousness  conspire. 

Comel  wander  on  the  wide  green  meadow's  edge 
That  Eros  fondles  with  a  breath  like  fire. 

291.  SONNET 

NOW  with  the  black  grape's  blood  the  barrels  flow. 
And  happy  songs  rise  to  the  welkin's  height 
From  vine- dressers  whose  gladness  seems  a  slight 

To  forest  boughs  made  voluble  with  woe. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  803 

Sere  leaves  and  unconsol^d  murmur  "  Lo ! 

Autumn  on  branch  and  tree-bole  like  a  blight, 
While  men,  in  our  dire  misery 's.despite, 

About  their  toil  with  heartless  singing  go. 

"  You  laugh,  poor  simple  churls,  that  have  no  mind 
For  Winter  stark  swift-striding  down  the  wind, 

The  slayer  of  the  leaves.     Poor  fools  that  sing, 
And  hail  Death's  coming!"     But  still  loud  and  clear 

Sound  the  glad  carols  of  the  vintaging 
Above  the  drowsy  avenues  and  drear. 


ROBERT  D'HUMIERES 
(1868-1915) 

292.     THE  SONG  OF  THE  FIGURE-HEAD 

I  AM  Young  Adventure's  Lover  and  I  vaunt 
In  spousal  chorus  to  the  salt  sea's  surge 
Thee  Son  of  Flesh  and  Spirit  will  I  urge 

To  unwind  the  girdle  the  horizons  flaunt. 

Not  horror  nor  the  lightning's  lash  can  daunt 

The  never-swerving  brows  that  bear  their  scourge, 
Though  the  masts  groan  aghast.    The  Future 's  verge 

Calls  to  me  and  the  unfathomed  waters  chaunt. 

The  cordage  creaks,  and  craven  is  the  hull; 
The  tree  dreams  of  the  land  in  every  lull : 

Aloof,  sublime,  entranced,  to  the  wide  sky 
I  lift  a  gaze  no  mirages  can  quell 
And  lips  deep-carven  with  the  unquenchable 

Immortal  thirsting  for  infinity. 


804  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

PAUL  FORT 

(1872-        ) 

293.   "THIS  GIRL  IS  DEAD" 

ALL  in  the  middle  of  her  mirth  this  merry  girl  is 

dead. 
They  laid  her  when  the  light  was  dim  in  cold  earth 

for  a  bed. 
They  laid  her  in  her  finery  and  all  unhusbanded. 
They  laid  her  all  unhusbanded  locked  tight  within 

her  bier. 
Then  back  they  came  all  merry  when  the  sun  was 

overhead. 
With  voices  brave  they  sang  a  stave:  we  die  or  maid 

or  wed. 
**  All  in  the  middle  of  her  mirth  this  merry  girl  is 

dead." 
So  back  again  into  the  fields  to  toil  for  daily  bread. 


294.  "WHAT  JOY  WHEN  FLUTE  AND  VIOLIN  ..." 

WHAT  joy  when  flute  and  violin  make  hearts  leap 
high  with  their  sweet  sound!  Now  boys  and  girls 
run  out  and  in,  and  all  the  old  folk  gather  round. 

Hurray!  all  gay  with  raiment  glad,  now  quickly f 
quickly  let  us  wed,  and  make  a  pair  of  lass  and  lad  I 

What  joy  when  in  the  church  we  pass,  whereto  the 
loud  bells  summon  all — three  hundred  bells  for  the 
bonny  lass,  and  one  big  bass  for  the  bridegroom  tall. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  305 

Hurray!  all  gay  with  raiment  glad,  now  quickly, 
quickly  let  us  wed,  and  make  a  pair  of  lass  and  lad  ! 

The  bell  now  makes  us  silent  all.  Alas!  'tis  not  for 
us  it  chimes.  .  .  .  Now  old  folk,  let  your  tears  down 
fall.     Perchance  'twill  ring  for  you  betimes. 

Hurray !  all  gay  with  raiment  glad,  now  quickly, 
quickly  let  us  wed,  and  make  a  pair  of  lass  and  lad  ! 

And  now  the  bell  will  no  more  call.  Then  dance  to 
bring  them  joyous  hours.  Long  life  to  lad  and  lass 
and  all!     Ah!  happy  we  it  is  not  ours. 

Hurray!  all  gay  with  raiment  glad,  now  quickly, 
quickly  let  us  wed,  and  make  a  pair  of  lass  and  lad  ! 

What  joy  when  flute  and  violin  make  aged  limbs 
again  seem  lithe!  Now  boys  and  girls  run  out  and 
in.     What  mirth  is  born  of  music  blithe ! 


HENRY  BATAILLE 

(1872-        ) 

295.     EVENTIMES 

THE  hamlets  die  in  the  long  eventimes, 
When  drowsy  doves  into  their  cotes  retire 

They  die  as  gently  as  the  belfry-chimes 

Or  the  blue  stir  of  swallows  round  the  spire.  .  . 

u 


806  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

Then  as  in  vigil  all  the  windows  blaze, 

Spent  flickering  flames  of  vestal  sisters  stray 
With  lantern-lights  that  hover  in  the  haze.  .  .  . 

The  long  grey  road  unwinds  itself  away.  .  .  . 
The  flowers  in  the  gardens  shrink  forlorn 

To  hear  the  dying  hamlet  leave  the  day, 
For  well  they  love  the  land  where  they  were  born. 

Now  all  grows  dark,  the  old  walls  wane  away 
As  soft  as  souls  of  aged  crones  out-worn. 


ANDRE  RIVOIRE 

(1872-        ) 

296.  "PALE   AND   SLOW,   IN   HER  SUMMER'S 
VESTURE  SO  PALE  " 

PALE  and  slow,  in  her  summer's  vesture  so  pale, 
So  slow  in  her  langour,  ah  1  very  pale  and  slow, 

Wending  along  with  a  sorrow  that  will  not  wail. 
Blind  sky  above  and  the  scentless  meadows  below. 

And  lo !  in  her  heart,  borne  down  by  a  load  too  dire. 
The  sound  of  a  horn's  farewell  more  loud  than  her 

grief.  .  .  . 
Ah !  thus  to  pass  away  and  to  win  for  pyre 

A  space  heaped  high  with  the  rain  of  the  yellow 

leafl 

Ah !  thus  to  die,  to  rest  Vhere  the  gold  leaves  rest, 
In  the  tender  reluctance  of  air  that  the  autumn 

brings, 

"Jo  hear  the  sob  of  the  comfortless  wind.     Far  west 
To  welcome  the  falling  dusk  and  the  folding  wings ! 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  307 


CAMILLE  MAUCLAIR 

(1872-        ) 

297.     THE  GARTH 

THE  weary  leafage  wanes 
Along  the  waterway,  along  the  copse ; 
The  forest  feels  the  rain's 
Light-glancing  drops. 

The  grey  cloud  sleeps  above  the  close, 

The  vine  is  mirrored  where  the  water  flows, 

The  wind  is  calm,  the  drops  slow-drawn 

From  topmost  leaf  to  leaf  aground 

At  last  fall  gently  to  the  lawn 

With  scarce  a  sound. 

On  the  horizon  the  last  light  delays. 

All  things  fade  out  in  the  autumnal  haze. 

The  laggard  twilight  hearkens  to  the  streams. 

The  ruddy  garth  with  sleep  is  now  fulfilled, 

Hard  by  a  window  gleams  .  .  . 

The  night  of  God  will  soon  have  all  things  stilled. 

0  influence  of  the  rainfall  and  the  hours 
On  nature  and  upon  my  soul  this  night, 
On  all  my  yearning  to  be  calm  this  night! 

To  calm  forgetfulness  all  things  are  led. 
Wane  out  in  sleep  that  comes  to  them  at  will. 
Not  ev'n  the  forest's  self  shows  any  dread: 

1  only  slumberless  behold  them  still. 

Their  mild  consentment  in  the  day's  demise, 
A  child  indeed,  and  with  a  child's  wide  eyes.  .  . 


308  FLEURS-DE-LYS 


298.     QUESTIONING 

DO  souls  grow  ripe  and  wither  too 
As  leaves  and  lovely  women  do  ? — 
Aye,  surely,  cnild,  it  must  be  so. 

And  doth  the  heart  forget  as  well 
The  wounds  once  deemed  unstanchable  ?- 
My  child,  my  child,  God  wills  it  so. 

And  can  forgiveness  still  be  borne 
In  loving  hearts  once  left  forlorn  ? — 
Perchance,  my  child,  it  may  be  so. 

Shall  we  behold  ourselves  anon 
The  very  body  joy  puts  on  ? 
Nay,  child,  it  never  may  be  so. 


FERNAND  GREGH 

(1873-        ) 

299.     "  I  HAVE  GRIEVED  TOO  MUCH  ..." 

I  HAVE  grieved  too  much  erewhile  for  fleeting  pain, 
And  now  my  griefs  I  may  not  recognize. 
'Tis  well  they  spake  to  me  in  furtive  sighs. 

And  called  to  me  with  their  light  voices  fain; 
For  them  no  more  the  tears  will  fill  my  eyes. 


FLEURS-DE-LYS  309 

My  sorrows  now  are  unknown  souls  to  me, 
Wayfarers  who  were  loved  perchance  of  yore 

Whom  now  no  more  I  wait  for  patiently, 

They  pass  me  by  and  know  me  now  no  more : 
Too  late,  too  late ;  their  souls  have  shut  the  door 


CHARLES  GUJ^RIN 
(1873-1907) 

300.     OUT  OF  THE  DEEP 

AT  the  hour  when  the  stars  from  the  eastern  spaces 

are  peering, 
I  stood  on  the  cliffs  that  look  on  the  sea,   and 

strode 
Alone  and  laughing  with  pride  in  the  squall's  career- 
ing 
To  feel  my  blood  leap  up  at  the  tempest's  goad. 


At  the  base  of  the  cliffs  there  was  thunder  of  waves 

defeated  ; 

I  measured  the  spaces  of  western  sky  whereon 
A  sunbeam  flamed  farewell  as  the  sun  retreated 

And  over  the  waters  its  waning  glory  shone. 


I  leant  by  a  rocky  wall  smooth-hewn  and  salted 
By  the  immemorial  sprays  of  the  endless  tide. 

Like  a  cross  on  the  brink  of  a  lonely  pit,  exalted 
I  clasped  all  space  as  I  held  my  arms  out  wide. 


310  FLEURS-DE-LYS 

And  my  full  heart  beat  with  the  heart  of  the  world's 

wide  bosom, 
The  sea's  salt  out  of  the  sea  my  strong  veins  drew; 
I  felt  my  body  within  me  grow  quick  and  blossom 
With  seed  of  stars  that  the  winnowing  night  let 

through. 

I  wanted  to  moan  more  loud  than  the  ocean  thunders, 
To  breathe  out  my  being  in  air  like  the  tempest 

wrack; 
And,  death  o'er-leapt,  feel  the  sacred  ardour  that 

sunders 
The  soul  from  self  that  again  unto  God  goes  back. 


NOTES 


NOTES 


1.  I  have  attempted  the  idiom  of  "  The  Twa  Corbies  "  and 
its  kindred  lays,  considering  it  most  suited  in  character,  though 
not  wholly  in  time,  to  this  folk  ballad  of  the  old  French.  The 
original  may  be  found  in  Professor  Legouis'  admirable  (and 
unanswerable)  "  Defense  de  la  po^sie  frangaise  k  I'usage  des 
lecteurs  anglais  "  (Constable).     Skeel  is  old  Scots  for  pail. 

2.  A  fragment  only  of  the  whole. 

3.  A  fragment  only  of  the  whole.  Of  JEHANNOT  DE  LES- 
CUREL  (Johnny  of  the  Squirrel)  nothing  but  this  nickname  is 
known.  Perhaps  he  was  wont  to  sing  for  his  supper  at  a  tavern 
bearing  this  sign. 

JEAN  FROISSART  (p.  38).  Selfsame  with  the  Chronicler,  a 
role  in  which  he  shines  with  a  braver  lustre. 

EUSTACHE  DESCHAMPS  (p.  39)  was  poet,  traveller,  and  man- 
at-arms.  He  seems  to  have  met  Chaucer,  to  whom  he  addressed 
a  ballade  with  the  refrain  ' '  Grant  translateur,  noble  Geff roy 
Chaucier, ' '  thus  reminding  us  who  first  brought  the  laurel  sapling 
to  these  isles,  and  whence  he  cut  the  shoot. 

10.  This  is  rendered  from  the  version  given  in  "  Chansons  du 
XV<=  Sifecle,"  collected  by  Gaston  Paris;  but  it  is  probably  of  much 
earlier  origin. 

16.  I  have  condensed  the  seventeen  lines  of  the  original  into 
thirteen,  the  number  common  to  the  Duke's  other  rondeaux  here 
rendered.  Neither  flagon  nor  wench  will  be  found  in  the  original, 
but  everjrthing  which  implies  them. 

20.  The  Greater  Testament  maintains  the  octosyllabic  lines 
throughout,  the  variation  here  being  due  to  the  translator  alone. 
Last  stanza,  last  line,  last  word.  Let  pedants  rjiil  1  I  believe  that 
an  English  Villon  would  have  abhorred  the  /  of  the  purist,  as 
firmly  as  I  believe  that  good  writers  of  English  have  too  often 
been  dragged  askew  by  the  perfervid  zeal  of  Latinist  grammarians. 

22.  Villon  escaped,  not  for  the  first  time;  but  how,  when,  or 
where  he  died  is  unknown. 

23.  The  fine  version  by  the  late  Mr.  John  Payne  attributes  the 
hard  stroke  of  the  ninth  line  to  Death;  but  as  the  original  text 
gives  no  warrant  for  this,  it  seems  to  me  likelier  that  Villon  had 
in  mind  the  outlawry  and  disciplinary  pains  which  he  endured 

313 


814  NOTES 

in  this  life.  The  fourth  line  seems  to  suggest  that  the  ' '  prison- 
crop  ' '  was  already  known  in  his  day. 

24.  The  original  is  in  sonnet  form;  dnd  I  have  endowed  with 
incalculable  wit  the  lady  whom  Saint-Gelais  rallied  for  uncounted 
whimsies. 

MARGUERITE  DE  NAVARRE  (p.  56).  Sister  of  Francis  I, 
married  Henri  of  Navarre.  She  was  a  witty  woman  who  wrote 
verse  and  prose,  was  highly  esteemed  by  Erasmus  and  beloved 
by  the  grateful  Marot,  whom  she  protected. 

CLEMENT  MAROT  (p.  56).  Owing  to  his  Protestantism  he 
sought  refuge  at  Geneva,  but  was  driven  thence  for  his  ill  behaviour. 
He  died  in  penury  at  Turin. 

26.  Third  line.  The  second-named  was  probably  Bonaventure 
Desp^riers,  another  writer  of  the  Protestant  fold  whom  Marguerite 
of  Navarre  befriended. 

CHRISTOPHE  PLANTIN  (p.  59)  was  a  famous  printer  who 
emigrated  from  Tours  to  Antwerp  in  1549,  his  Alcala  polyglot 
being  his  masterpiece.  The  Mus^e  Plantin  at  Antwerp  contains 
the  actual  press  with  which  he  printed  the  original  of  this  sonnet, 
and  copies  are  still  printed  there  and  sold  to  visitors,  in  the  form  of 
post-card  souvenirs,  for  the  sum  of  one  penny. 

PONTUS  DE  TYARD  (p.  63).  The  eldest  of  the  P16iade,  and 
probably  the  least  talented. 

PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  (p.  63).  His  ancestor  came  from 
Rumania  and  fought  for  Philippe  of  Valois  against  the  English, 
nearly  two  centuries  before  the  poet  was  born  at  the  Chateau  of 
Poissonnifere,  built  from  the  royal  bounty  awarded  him  for  his 
services  in  war.  Ronsard  became  page  to  the  Dauphin  Fran9ois ; 
and,  at  twelve  years  of  age,  on  the  marriage  of  his  master's  sister 
to  King  James  V  of  Scotland,  accompanied  her  to  her  new  home, 
and  spent  two  years  in  Edinburgh  before  returning  to  France. 
He  had  visited  Flanders,  Holland,  Germany,  and  Italy  on  various 
diplomatic  missions  before  he  was  sixteen.  Thenceforward,  as 
the  result  of  a  severe  illness,  he  was  deaf.  For  the  influence  of  the 
P16iade  on  English  poetry  see  ' '  The  French  Renaissance  in 
England,"  by  Sidney  Lee  (Clarendon  Press),  and  "The  French 
Influence  in  English  Literature,"  by  A.  H.  Upham  (Columbia 
University  Press).  The  best  appreciations  are  to  be  found  in 
"  Ronsard  and  la  P16iade,"  by  George  Wyndham  (Macmillan), 
and  "  Avril,"  by  Hilaire  Belloc  (Duckworth). 

38.  Written  for  his  third  and  last-sung  love  H^lene  de  Surgeres, 
a  maid-of-honour  to  the  Queen-mother,  Catherine  de  M^dicis. 

39.  Ronsard 's  first  love,  of  whom  we  know  hardly  more  than 
her  name — Mademoiselle  du  Pr6. 

40.  This  sonnet  of  Ronsard  is  a  close  imitation  of  one  by 
Petrarch. 


NOTES  815 

42.  Written  of  his  second  love,  Marie  du  Pin,  who  died  a  maid. 

43.  The  original  has  seven  more  stanzas. 

44.  This  sonnet  of  Du  Bellay  is  closely  imitated  from  one  by 
Daniello. 

47.  The  Berecynthian  is  Cybele,  the  goddess  of  Fecundity,  one 
of  the  Titan  dynasty  and  a  great  producer  of  gods.  Festivals  in 
her  honour  were  held  on  Mount  Berecynthus  by  the  Phrygians,  to 
whom  she  was  especially  dear. 

50.  This  was  Du  Bellay's  version  from  the  Latin  of  Navagero, 
a  Venetian  (1483-1529). 

LOUISE  LABE  (p.  78)  was  one  of  the  learned  ladies  of  Lyons, 
where  the  influence  of  Petrarch  was  then  predominant,  it  being 
on  the  main  road  between  France  and  Italy  and  a  frequent  halting- 
place  for  those  going  to  or  from  Rome.  It  was  thus  that  she  met 
OLIVIER  DE  MAGNY  (p.  83)  and  conceived  the  ardent  passion 
which  so  many  of  her  sonnets  celebrate. 

REMI  BELLEAU  (p.  80)  travelled  in  Italy  and  translated  Ana- 
creon.  Next  to  Du  Bellay,  was  probably  the  closest  of  Ronsard's 
friends. 

ESTIENNE  PASQUIER  (p.  83)  is  notable  as  the  author  of 
"  Recherches  sur  la  France,"  a  most  important  contribution  to 
the  literary  history  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

ESTIENNE  JODELLE  (p.  84)  was  chiefly  known  during  his 
lifetime  as  an  author  of  tragedies.  His  "  Cl€op4tre  "  was  given 
before  Henri  II,  with  Belleau  and  Jodelle  himself  among  the 
players.  Ronsard  and  his  friends  afterwards  offered  him  a  goat 
garlanded  with  ivy  after  the  antique  fashion,  and  this  innocent 
frolic  became  the  ground  of  a  charge  of  paganism  and  sacrilege 
which  embittered  the  old  age  of  the  erstwhile  lover  of  Cassandra, 
Marie,  and  Hilhne. 

58.  Eighth  line.  I  have  put  in  barque  and  sheep,  which  all  the 
preceding  images  suggest,  but  which  Jodelle  does  not  cite  by  name. 

JEAN-ANTOINE  DE  BA"IF  (p.  85)  was  born  at  Venice  during 
one  of  the  diplomatic  missions  undertaken  by  his  father,  in  whose 
company  Ronsard  was  afterwards  to  visit  the  German  States. 

GUY  DE  TOURS  and  JEAN  DOUBLET  (p.  87).  Nothing  seems 
to  be  known  of  these  two  poets  save  that  the  latter  was  born  at 
Dieppe  and  that  his  verses  were  published  in  1559. 

JEAN  PASSERAT  (p.  88)  is  said  to  have  been  as  skilled  in  Greek 
and  Latin  verse  as  he  was  in  French.  He  was  professor  of  elo- 
quence in  the  College  de  France,  and  wrote  the  Latin  inscription 
which  may  still  be  read  on  the  clock  of  the  Palais  de  Justice  at 
Paris. 

64.  Addressed  to  Henri  III.  Ninth  line.  "  La  teste  verte  "  is 
a  French  equivalent  for  our  *'  hare-brained  ";  but  I  have  been 


316  NOTES 

loth  to  sacrifice  the  verbal  antithesis  of  the  original,  and  am  sorry 
that  no  ingenuity  can  preserve  in  English  the  ' '  sonnet  ' '  and 
"  sonnettes  "  of  the  eleventh  line. 

GUILLAUME  DU  BARTAS  (p.  92)  wrote  a  long  and  wearisome 
epic  of  the  Creation  which  was  translated  into  English  by  Joshua 
Sylvester  within  ten  years  of  its  author's  death.  His  fame  is  now 
deservedly  rescued  from  oblivion  by  this  one  sonnet. 

PHILIPPE  DESPORTES  (p.  93)  was  born  at  Chartres  and 
started  life  as  a  lawyer's  clerk,  losing  his  place  for  making  love 
to  his  master's  wife.  He  then,  by  good  luck,  fell  in  with  the 
retinue  of  Charles  IX  and  his  lady,  Catherine  de  Medicis,  but,  failing 
to  win  a  footing  there,  took  hire  as  secretary  to  the  Bishop  of  Puy, 
whom  he  accompanied  to  Italy.  He  found  time  during  his  travels 
for  the  study  of  Petrarch,  Bembo,  and  the  lesser  rhymers,  whom  he 
freely  adapted.  Returning  to  Paris,  he  obtained  the  patronage  of 
the  Duke  of  Anjou,  on  whose  succession  to  the  French  throne  he 
fell  on  smooth  days  and  became  the  richest  abbot  in  all  France. 

69.  Appears  to  be  adapted  from  the  well-known  epigram  by 
Leonidas  of  Tarentum,  No.  IV,  Section  VI,  in  Mackail's  "  Select 
Epigrams  from  the  Greek  Anthology."  A  Latin  poem  by  Nava- 
gero,  the  Venetian  scholar  mentioned  above,  is  also  very  like  it, 
and  perhaps  served  as  model. 

70.  A  good  example  of  Petrarch  transferred. 

THEODORE-AGRIPPA  D'AUBIGNE  (p.  95)  was  a  redoubtable 
Protestant  continually  at  war  both  with  sword  and  pen.  He  was 
four  times  condemned  to  death,  but  escaped,  to  die  peacefully  at 
the  verge  of  fourscore.  His  ' '  Tragiques  ' '  give  the  history  of  the 
religious  wars  of  the  latter  half  of  the  sixteenth  century  in  which 
he  took  an  active  part,  and,  like  Ronsard's  "  Discours  "  but  from 
the  opposite  camp,  anticipate  the  ' '  Chitiments  ' '  of  Hugo  in  their 
thunderous  eloquence  of  invective. 

72.  Henri  IV,  whose  abjuration  of  Protestantism  he  never 
forgave. 

FRANCOIS  DE  MALHERBE  (p.  99)  was  the  god  of  poetic 
idolatry  during  the  whole  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  even 
later.  He  was  well  dubbed  by  Mile  de  Gournay  "  docteur 
en  negative, ' '  for  his  influence  on  poetry  was  no  more  than  that  of 
grammatical  corrector  and  codifier.  Critic,  analyst,  classifier, 
but  not  creator,  his  importance  is  mainly  linguistic,  and  he 
certainly  left  behind  him  shcirper  and  surer  tools  of  expression 
than  he  had  found. 

73.  The  first  seven  and  the  last  three  stanzas  of  the  very  famous 
original,  thus  following  the  practice  of  French  anthologists. 

74.  This  was  his  last  surviving  child;  but  in  spite  of  Malherbe's 
righteous  ire,  he  seems  to  have  been  killed  in  a  duel  fairly 
fought. 


NOTES  317 

MADEMOISELLE  DE  GOURNAY  (p.  loi)  was  the  adopted 
daughter  of  Montaigne,  and  a  staunch  upholder  of  Ronsard 
against  the  onslaughts  of  Malherbe. 

MATHURIN  REGNIER  (p.  loi)  wrote  brilliant  satires  and  was 
well  called  by  De  Musset  "  De  1 'immortal  Moliere  immortal 
devancier."  He  married  a  daughter  of  Desportes.  Though 
belonging  both  by  chronology  and  his  own  practice  to  the  classical 
school,  he  laughed  at  the  pretensions  of  Malherbe,  of  whose 
essential  prosiness  he  was  well  aware. 

76.  The  first  five  of  eight  stanzas. 

84.  I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  to  whom  this  was  addressed. 
' '  Your  Spanish  heart ' '  (line  eight)  possibly  means  ' '  your  treacher- 
ous heart, ' '  there  being  a  long-smouldering  feud  with  the  neigh- 
bouring State,  and  Spanish  being  therefore  at  that  time  a  term  of 
strong  misfavour. 

PIERRE  CORNEILLE(p.  108)  was  the  father  of  French  poetical 
drama.  The  '  *  Marquise  ' '  was  Mile  Duparc,  a  comedienne  whom 
Corneille  courted  when  well  past  his  meridian. 

PAUL  SCARRON  (p.  no)  was  famous  during  his  lifetime  as  a 
burlesque-writer.  He  married  the  granddaughter  of  D'Aubigne, 
who  afterwards  became  famous  as  Mme  de  Maintenon.  He 
passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  paralysed  and  racked  by  rheu- 
matism. 

JEAN  DE  LA  FONTAINE  (p.  m)  spent  a  life  of  gentlemanly 
dawdling  and  philandering  till  nigh  forty,  when  the  exhaustion 
of  his  patrimony  drove  him  to  seek  the  favours  of  the  great  by 
his  pen. 

88.  Adapted,  like  most  of  La  Fontaine's  fables,  from  JEsop. 

89.  This  is  one  of  La  Fontaine's  own  invention,  and  the  Levan- 
tine legend — a  legend. 

92.  Line  seven.  "Martin  "  is — or  was — a  French  nickname 
for  a  whip. 

PHILIPPE  QUINAULT  (p.  116)  wrote  the  libretti  for  LuUi's 
operas. 

96.  A  fragment  from  a  much  longer  piece. 

98.  A  fragment  from  the  conclusion  of  ' '  Circe. ' ' 

99.  Mme  LuUin  was  a  centenarian  of  Geneva. 

100.  Gretry  is,  perhaps,  the  most  celebrated  musician  among 
the  Liegeois.  His  statue  still  stands  (I  hope)  in  front  of  the 
municipal  Opera  House  of  his  native  city. 

102.  Frdron  was  one  of  Voltaire's  most  bitter  opponents. 

JEAN-FRAN(;OIS  DUCIS  (p.  123)  was  one  of  the  first  to 
adapt  Shakespeare  for  the  French  stage.  He  greatly  admired 
Garrick. 


818  NOTES 

112.  Written  in  the  prison  of  Saint-Lazare  where  Ch^nier  passed 
the  last  months  of  his  life,  leaving  it  only  to  mount  the  scaffold. 
Happily  for  us,  the  poet's  sympathies  were  deceived.  The  fair 
unknown  was  the  Duchesse  de  Fleury,  an  adept  at  amorous  intrigue, 
who  escaped  the  scaffold  to  continue  her  adventures. 

MARIE-JOSEPH  CHENIER  (p.  129),  a  younger  brother  of  Andr6. 

113.  The  first,  third,  fifth,  and  sixth  stanzas  of  the  fourteen 
addressed  to  the  ' '  Supreme  Being. ' ' 

ANTOINE- VINCENT  ARNAULT  (p.  130)  wrote  tragedies,  which 
are  now  entirely  forgotten,  though  he  had  a  vogue  under  the  first 
Empire.  He  suffered  exile  on  the  fall  of  Napoleon;  and  the 
"  thunder  "  of  these  lines  is  generally  interpreted  as  symbolizing 
the  blow  which  fell  on  him  from  the  new  regime. 

PIERRE-JEAN  DE  BERANGER  (p.  133).  The  enormous  vogue 
enjoyed  by  Beranger  during  his  lifetime  can  only  be  explained  by 
the  topical  character  of  his  pieces,  which  have  often  a  political 
bearing.  His  place  in  French  literature  is  somewhat  analogous 
to  that  of  Dibdin  in  ours,  though  the  Frenchman  has  a  nimbler 
talent  and  a  wider  range — and  other  good  men  wrote  him  tunes 
and  gave  him  a  wide  currency. 

120.  A  fragment  from  the  last  section  of  "La  Vigne  et  la 
Maison." 

124.  These  few  lines  are  the  prelude  to  the  narrative  poem 
"  La  Neige,"  telling  how  White  Emma,  Princess  of  Old  Gaul,  fell 
in  love  with  a  page. 

125.  Fifteen  stanzas  from  a  total  of  forty-eight. 

126.  The  opening  section  only  of  Vigny's  masterpiece,  "  Le 
Cor,"  a  signpost  on  the  highway  of  the  romantic  revival,  and 
written  before  the  ' '  Chanson  de  Roland  ' '  had  received  the 
attention  which  followed  on  the  recovery  at  the  Bodleian  in  1837 
of  the  complete  manuscript.  Second  line,  third  stanza.  The 
three  chief  heights  of  Marbore,  enclosing  a  natural  amphitheatre, 
are  each  over  three  thousand  metres  high.  Last  line.  Roland 
was  one  of  the  twelve  peers  of  Charlemagne,  and  perished  at 
Roncevaux  while  covering  the  retreat  of  the  Emperor's  main 
army.  For  an  excellent  summary  of  Vigny's  achievement  see 
"French  Profiles,"  by  Edmund  Gosse. 

134.  First  line,  "  the  Florentine,"  i.e.  Petrarch,  as  the  original 
says. 

136.  Written  on  September  3,  1847,  of  his  daughter  L6opoldine, 
drowned  with  her  husband  after  but  three  months  of  marriage.  Hugo 
set  out  as  foretold,  and  the  next  day  wrote  his  deathless  monody 
' '  A  Villequier, ' '  on  the  fourth  anniversary  of  the  calamity. 

137.  These  lines  appear  as  a  prelude  to  "  Les  ChStiments,"  and 
the  "  tyrant  "  is,  of  course,  Napoleon  III. 


NOTES  819 

141.  The  first  five  of  eleven  stanzas,  the  later  ones  losing  some- 
what their  character  of  an  impersonal  apostrophe  and  appearing 
as  an  address  on  private  and  pcirticular  troubles  to  his  unwedded 
spouse,  Juliette  Drouet, 

143.  Last  line.  The  original  has  "  le  chardon  des  sables." 
Probably  the  sea-holly  is  intended. 

144.  Represents  fourteen  lines  from  Section  VI  of  "  Les  Sept 
Merveilles  du  Monde,"  in  the  "  Legende  des  Siecles."  I  am 
doubtful  of  the  propriety  of  this  recasting  in  a  form  which  Hugo 
never  used,  but  could  not  withstand  the  temptation  which  it  offered 
for  underlining  the  obligations  due  from  H^r^dia  to  his  great 
forerunner  in  historiography. 

JULIEN-AUGUSTE-PELAGE  BRIZEUX  (p.  167)  was  the  poet 
of  Brittany.  He  wrote  rustic  tales  mingled  with  a  good  deal  of 
folk-lore  gathered  among  the  fishermen  and  tillers  of  his  native 
soil. 

146.  This  song — or,  rather,  something  to  the  same  effect — 
used  to  be  sung  by  the  Breton  peasantry  after  nightfall  each  first 
of  November  in  a  district  of  French  Cornwall  near  Finistire. 

CHARLES-AUGUSTIN  SAINTE-BEUVE  (p.  170)  as  a  poet  was 
all  things  by  turn  and  nothing  long.  He  helped  in  the  rehabili- 
tation of  Ronsard,  and  is  now  remembered  for  his  effort  to  adapt 
the  methods  of  the  English  Lakists  to  the  French  Muse.  As  a 
critic  he  was  unrivalled. 

149.  The  first  sixteen  of  forty-eight  lines. 

152.  Nerval's  title,  "  Les  Cydalises,"  is  only  understandable  as 
a  French  form  of  the  Greek  KvddKifios,  and  I  have  rendered  it 
accordingly. 

155.  This  sonnet  should  be  compared  with  De  Nerval's  own 
"Fantasy"  (No.  153)  and  Baudelaire's  "My  Former  Life" 
(No.  191),  the  sentiment  of  reincarnation  being  common  to  all 
three.  I  have  left  the  original  (Spanish)  title — meaning  luckless — 
unrendered.  Line  two.  Perhaps  Waifre,  the  last  of  the  heredi- 
tary Dukes,  whose  losing  fight  for  freedom  is  described  in  vol.  i, 
chap,  xiv,  of  "The  Deserts  of  Southern  France,"  by  S.  Baring 
Gould.  Line  five.  Pausilippo  is  a  lovely  grotto  near  Naples, 
tradition  placing  Virgil's  tomb  in  the  immediate  vicinity.  Line 
nine.  The  Marquis  de  Lusignan  (1753-1815),  the  last  of  an 
illustrious  line,  fled  to  Hamburg  on  the  outbreak  of  the  first 
Revolution,  and  vainly  sought  reinstatement  as  a  senator  under 
successive  regimes.  His  ancestor  etienne  de  Lusignan  (1537- 
1590)1  oi  the  royal  house  of  Cyprus,  took  holy  orders  and  won 
high  episcopal  honours  in  both  Italy  and  France,  after  his  dynasty 
had  been  overthrown  by  the  invading  Turks  Biron  (1524-1592), 
Duke  and  Marshal  of  France,  was  the  seven-times-wounded  and 
never- beaten  general  who  stormed  La  Rochelle  during  the  Huguenot 


320  NOTES 

troubles.  Or  the  allusion  may  be  to  his  son  (i  562-1 602),  beheaded 
for  a  treason  which  he  refused  to  avow.  The  suggestiveness  of 
these  two  names  can  hardly  be  felt  by  an  English  reader.  Boadicea, 
Llewellyn,  and  Bruce  might  have  the  same  evocatory  power  for 
us.  The  Queen  of  Sheba  is  perhaps  meant  in  line  ten,  it  being 
one  of  De  Nerval's  hallucinations  that  he  was  in  love  with  this 
lady  re-enshrined  in  later  flesh.  In  Mr.  Eccles's  book  (see  note 
below)  other — and  perhaps  likelier — personages  are  suggested; 
but  the  only  thing  certain  is  that  all  these  names  are  merely  used 
as  symbols  of  lost  glory. 

156.  Having  arrived  at  the  proper  ending  of  his  "  Ballad," 
De  Musset  cocked  a  snook  at  his  own  Diana  by  parodying  his  lines 
in  a  set  of  lewd  stanzas,  which  are  to  be  found  in  some  early 
editions.  This  is  one  of  the  boyish  tricks  which  seem  to  suggest 
that  Lamartine  and  De  Lisle  were  right  in  regarding  him  "  en 
gar9on."     He  was  always  young,  au  caeur  de  cire. 

159.  This  was  written  of  the  Princess  Belgiojoso,  one  of  the 
many  lights-o' -love  with  whom  De  Musset  vainly  sought  consola- 
tion after  the  rupture  of  his  famous  first  liaison.  The  lady  was 
not  dead  when  he  wrote  it ;  she  had  merely  withdrawn  her  favours. 
The  first  stanza  refers  to  one  of  four  recumbent  figures  supporting 
the  tomb  of  the  grandson  of  "II  Magnifico  ' '  in  the  church'  called 
of  San  Lorenzo  at  Florence. 

160.  From  the  "  Nuit  de  Mai."  I  have  taken  the  opening  lines 
of  several  passages  and  linked  them  together  into  a  single  invoca- 
tion, skipping  the  intervening  descriptions. 

161.  This  was  written  in  1841,  after  having  met  George  Sand 
by  chance  while  out  walking.  Six  from  a  total  of  forty-five 
stanzas. 

162.  The  original  is  in  sonnet  form,  with  octosyllabic  lines. 

166.  I  have  put  stars  where  Gautier  gives  no  sign  of  a  break. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  lyric  would  close  more  effectively  on  the 
accent  of  wistful  suspense.  The  rebuff  of  the  last  two  stanzas 
is  too  rude;  and  where  is  the  lover  who  would  spoil  his  chances 
with  a  douche  of  such  chilly  wisdom  ? 

167.  Written  in  answer  to  the  lines  addressed  to  him  byDe 
Banville.     See  No.  204. 

168.  The  first  three  of  nine  stanzas. 

170.  These  lines  reproduce  the  first,  second,  sixth,  and  seventh 
of  the  forty-one  stanzas  entitled  ' '  Alma  Parens. ' ' 

171.  Three  stanzas  from  the  close  of  "  L 'Amour  et  La  Mort." 
174.  Candour  compels  me  to  state  that  Soulary  wrote  of  cherries 

and  sparrows.     But  rhyme  will  not  be  denied. 

LECONTE  DE  LISLE  (p.  199)  wrote  in  his  preface  to  "  Poemes 
Antiques  " :  "  .  .  .  the    entire    Christian    cycle    is    barbarous. 


NOTES  321 

Dante,  Shakespeare,  and  Milton  prove  only  the  strength  and  reach 
of  their  individual  genius;  their  speech  and  their  conceptions  are 
barbarous.  .  .  .  Modem  poetry,  a  confused  reflection  of  the 
stormy  personality  of  Byron,  the  sham  and  sensuous  religiosity  of 
Chateaubriand,  the  dreamy  mysticism  of  Over-Rhine,  amd  the 
realism  of  the  Lakists,  rises  in  self -disturbemce  and  wastes  away. ' ' 
Holding  such  views,  (and  proclaiming  them),  it  is  not  wonderful 
that  his  recognition  was  long  delayed,  and  that  the  poet  who  in 
French  literature  is  to  Hugo  as  Milton  to  Shakespeare  in  ours 
should  have  had  to  wait  until  his  sixty-eighth  year  for  election  to 
the  Academie  Franjaise,  when  he  was  given  the  vacant  faateuil 
of  the  dead  Hugo  in  fulfilment  of  the  latter's  expressed  desire. 

177.  In  the  original  the  first  and  last  lines  of  each  stanza  rhyme. 

179.  One  of  the  very  few  poems  in  which  Leconte  de  Lisle 
deigns  to  avow  his  tenderness.     I  have  left  his  original  title. 

187.  I  am  aware  that  my  rendering  of  the  last  line  is  debatable, 
but  ' '  neant  divin  ' '  makes  poor  sense  in  English,  and  in  any  case 
to  De  Lisle  it  may  very  well  have  implied  the  meaning  I  have  here 
assumed  for  it. 

189.  This  sonnet  is  obviously  referred  to  by  Swinburne  in  Stanza 
VI  of  his  ' '  Ave  atque  Vale  ' '  in  memory  of  the  poet.  So,  too. 
No.  191  is  clearly  indicated  in  Stanza  II  of  the  same  immortal 
elegy. 

192.  Pascal,  the  great  French  philosopher,  eis  the  result  of  an 
accident  suffered  from  the  hallucination  of  a  pit  continually 
yawning  at  his  feet.  It  is  curious  that  Baudelaire  should  have 
translated  the  Tales  of  Poe,  in  one  of  which  this  horrific  idea  is 
treated.  "The  Influence  of  Baudelaire,"  by  G.  Turquet-Milnes 
(Constable),  traces  very  fully  his  literary  ancestry  and  descendants, 
though  we  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  author  credits  him  with 
too  large  a  family,  and  admits  into  the  direct  line  many  who  are 
no  more  than  remote  collaterals. 

194.  Written  of  the  Creole  mistress  whom  he  brought  back  from 
the  voyage  to  the  tropics  on  which  he  had  been  sent  by  his  bewil- 
dered parents  while  he  was  still  short  of  his  majority. 

195.  Written  of  the  same.  What  Baudelaire  may  have  meant 
by  "  Courtisane  imparfaite  "  is  not  clear;  but  the  misery  he 
suffered  from  the  continual  infidelities  of  this  coloured  woman 
have  suggested  my  rendering  of  ' '  adulterous  cheat. ' ' 

HENRI  MURGER  (p.  220)  is  best  known  as  author  of  the  famous 
"  Vie  de  Boheme,"  from  which  the  story  of  Puccini's  well-known 
opera  is  drawn. 

LOUIS  BOUILHET  (p.  221)  was  at  school  with  Flaubert. 

LOUIS  MENARD  (p.  222).  A  convinced  communist  who 
suffered  exile. 

X 


322  NOTES 

204.  See  Gautier's  lines  (No.  167)  written  in  answer. 

ANDRE  THEURIET  (p.  229)  is  even  better  known  as  the  prose- 
poet  of  the  woods  and  fields,  amid  which  he  always  moved  whether 
as  singer  or  story-teller. 

ARMAND  SILVESTRE  (p.  231).  George  Sand  introduced  his 
first  book  to  the  public.  Of  his  poetry  Anatole  France  has  well 
said,  "  II  tire  de  la  volupte  physique  un  mysticisme  exalte." 

LEON  DIERX  (p.  233)  was,  like  his  master  Leconte  de  Lisle, 
a  native  of  Reunion.  His  work,  perhaps,  shows  more  affinity 
with  the  Nevroses,  who  derive  from  Baudelaire  and  culminate  in 
Samain. 

211.  The  first  eleven  of  a  long  series  of  lines  all  similarly  linked 
together  by  recurring  phrases. 

ACHILLE  MILLIEN  (p.  234)  is  the  poet  of  the  Nivernais.  He 
is  a  great  linguist,  and  has  collected  and  translated  the  folk-song 
and  poetry  of  Eastern  Europe  and  of  the  Spanish  peninsula. 

213.  In  Professor  Saintsbury's  "  French  Lyrics  "  will  be  found 
a  twelfth-century  song  from  which  this  may  have  been  derived. 

218.  The  last  two  of  four  stanzas. 

HENRI  CAZALIS  (p.  240)  was  a  doctor  of  medicine,  and  pub- 
lished most  of  his  books  (other  than  medical)  under  the  pen-name 
of  Jean  Labor.  He  was  deeply  versed  in  Oriental  literature,  and 
wrote  a  study  of  William  Morris. 

STEPHANE  MALLARME  (p.  247)  was  professor  of  English  in 
several  of  the  lesser  Universities,  and  finally  at  the  Lycee  Condorcet 
in  Paris.  He  translated  Poe's  "Raven."  He  has  been  well 
described  by  Huysmans  (writing  from  the  life),  in  his  novel  "  A 
Rebours, "  as  "  raffinant  sur  des  pensees  deji  specieuses,  les 
greffant  de  finesses  byzantines,  les  perpetuant  en  des  deductions 
legerement  indiquees  que  reliait  a  peine  un  imperceptible  fil." 
225  and  226  are  versions  after  the  two  most  intelligible  of  Mal- 
larme's  pieces;  but  even  here  the  "  imperceptible  fil  "  is  none 
too  easy  to  follow,  and  I  have  linked  up  his  ellipses  with  threads 
of  my  own  weaving.  See  "  French  Profiles,"  by  Edmund  Gosse 
(Heinemann),  for  a  shrewdly  humorous  account  of  him. 

JOSE-MARIA  DE  HEREDIA  (p.  248)  was  born  in  Cuba  of 
Spanish  blood  by  a  French  mother,  and  was  descended  from  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  of  the  ' '  Conquistadores. ' '  He  gave  a  life- 
time to  the  production  of  a  single  volume  of  one  hundred  and 
eighteen  flawless  sonnets.  See  "  The  Claims  of  French  Poetry," 
by  J.  C.  Bailey,  and  "A  Century  of  French  Poetry,"  by  F.  Y. 
Eccles  (both  Constable).  Mr.  Bailey  appreciates  well  without 
losing  his  English  standpoint;  while  the  latter  book  is  a  rich 
mine  of  succinct  information,  and  a  marvel  of  critical  analysis 
and  clear  exposition  of  matters  by  no  means  easy  of  summary 
assortment.     Mr.  Eccles  understands  and  can  feel  French  rhythm 


NOTES  323 

and  its  suggestiveness  in  a  way  that  few  born  Englishmen  can 
ever  hope  to  achieve,  even  after  long  study  and  residence  beyond 
the  straits.  Mr.  Gosse's  "  Critical  Kit-Kats  "  (Heinemann)  also 
gives  an  excellent  account  of  Heredia's  achievement. 

228.  Neither  "willow"  nor  "swans"  will  be  found  in  the 
original  sestet. 

231.  The  Ponte  Vecchio  at  Florence.  See  "Florentine  Vi- 
gnettes" (Elkin  Mathews),  by  the  present  writer,  from  which 
this  version  is  reproduced  by  permission  of  the  publisher. 

CATULLE  MENDES  (p.  255)  is,  next  to  Hugo,  one  of  the  most 
amazing  virtuosi  among  French  poets.  He  had,  perhaps,  been 
greater  but  for  this  fatal  facility  of  production,  which  too  readily 
supplied  what  was  required  of  it  by  the  baser  public  of  his  day. 

238.  From  "  Contes  Epiques."  Save  Hugo,  Mend^s  has  no 
equal  in  this  kind.  He  caught  from  the  greater  master  the  trick 
of  consummating  his  epic  narrative  with  a  quiet  close,  as  in  the 
famous  ' '  Donne-lui  tout  de  meme  a  boire,  dit  mon  p4re. ' ' 

239.  The  opening  lines  of  the  original  have  the  very  sound  of 
the  squall  they  speak  of. 

241.  Written  in  the  prison  at  Mons  where  he  was  converted 
while  undergoing  a  sentence  for  his  murderous  attack  on  Arthur 
Rimbaud  (see  No.  263),  the  youth  whose  sinister  fascination 
caused  Verlaine's  rupture  with  his  wife.  For  biographical  details 
see  ' '  Paul  Verlaine, ' '  by  the  present  writer  (Constable),  from  which 
Nos.  241,  248,  and  250  are  reproduced  by  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers. For  his  aesthetic  philosophy  see  ' '  The  Symbolist  Move- 
ment "  (Constable),  by  Arthur  Symons,  than  whom  no  writer 
on  our  side  of  the  Channel  has  ever  better  understood  the  aims  of 
his  school,  or  more  happily  rendered  their  moods  and  their  music. 

243.  Another  of  those  pieces  which  were  written  in  the  prison 
at  Mons.  It  has  been  interpreted  as  an  appeal  to  his  wife,  but 
it  seems  likelier  to  be  a  sinner's  soliloquy  addressed  to  his  better 
self. 

251.  Bitter  raillery  resounds  in  all  that  this  author  wrote. 
Fourth  stanza,  last  line.  The  original  has  "  Jardin  d'Acclimata- 
tion,"  the  last  word  rhyming  with  the  "  ration  "  of  the  second 
line's  terminal.  "Grub"  here  bears — quite  accidentally — a 
double  meaning,  which  accords  well  with  the  accent  of  tragic 
irony  heard  in  the  original. 

GABRIEL  VICAIRE  (p.  268)  was  the  poet  of  the  Bressans,  for 
whom  he  did  with  a  lighter  touch  and  a  truer  accent  of  the  folk 
what  Brizeux  had  accomplished  for  the  Bretons  forty  years  earlier. 

AUGUSTE  ANGELLIER  (p.  272)  was  professor  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Lille.  He  wrote  an  important  study  of  the  life  and  work 
of  Burns. 


824  NOTES 

258,  259,  and  260  are  from  "  La  Chanson  des  Gueux,"  mostly 
dealing  with  the  life  of  the  outcasts  of  the  road,  with  whom 
M.  Richepin  passed  a  spell  of  his  adventurous  youth.  The  ' '  Proud 
Sonnet  "  is  a  good  example  of  his  fondness  for  truculent  metaphor. 
He  was  condemned  to  imprisonment  and  a  heavy  fine  for  his 
daring  fidelity  to  the  speech  and  thought  "  de  ces  aventureux,  de 
ces  hardis,  de  ces  enfants  en  revolte  a  qui  la  societe  presque 
toujours  fut  maratre^  et,  qui,  ne  trouvant  pas  de  lait  a  la  mamelle 
de  la  mauvaise  nourrice,  mordent  a  meme  la  chair  pour  calmer 
leur  faim." 

LOUIS  TIERCELIN  (p.  277)  is  another  of  the  "  Poetes  du 
Terroir."     No.  262  is  from  "  La  Bretagne  qui  chante." 

264.  Line  seven.  Rodenbach  was  born  at  Tournai  and  passed 
his  boyhood  at  Bruges  and  Ghent.  His  phrase  ' '  sur  les  escaliers 
des  pignons  noirs  ' '  will  be  well  understood  by  those  who  have 
visited  these  Flemish  towns. 

265.  The  first  two  of  five  stanzas. 

JEAN  MOREAS  (p.  283)  was  a  Greek  and  born  at  Athens,  but 
settled  permanently  in  France  before  he  was  twenty.  He  started 
his  career  as  a  thorough-going  symbolist  with  fantastic  ideas  as 
to  freedom  of  language,  but  relapsed  in  1891,  when  he  founded 
what  he  called  an  '  Ecole  Romane,"  which,  we  fear,  has  left 
small  wake  in  its  passing.  In  this  latter  period  he  proposed  a 
much-needed  return  ' '  dans  la  pensee  comme  dans  le  style,  a 
I'equilibre  et  a  I'harmonie,"  for  lack  of  which  many  of  his  fol- 
lowers bade  farewell  both  to  melody  and  sense.  He  even  proposed 
to  restore  archaisms,  to  multiply  inversions,  and  to  encourage 
the  invention  of  compound  words  in  the  manner  often  used — and 
abused — by  Ronsard  and  Du  Bartas  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

267.  An  example  of  what  Mr.  Eccles  well  calls  "triumphant 
assimilation,"  the  original  being  cast  in  a  French  five  hundred 
years  old,  which  I  have  done  my  best  to  mimic  in  suitable  English. 

HENRI-CHARLES  READ  (p.  285).  This  precocious  boy  died 
of  brain  fever  at  nineteen,  a  fact  which  gives  an  added  significance 
to  these  strangely  premonitory  lines.  The  surname  is  derived 
from  the  poet's  great  grandfather,  a  Scotch  colonel. 

ALBERT  SAMAIN  (p.  288)  was  a  native  of  Lille  and  died  of 
consumption.  Perhaps  these  two  facts  may  help  to  explain  why 
his  wistful  music  is  so  full  of  yearning  for  ' '  an  ampler  ether,  a 
diviner  air."  He  has  painted  his  own  portrait  perfectly  in  a 
single  line  : 

' '  Mon  ame  est  un  velours  douloureux  que  tout  f  roisse. ' ' 

275.  The  second  of  twin  sonnets.  Samain's  sonnets  are, 
architecturally,  far  inferior  to  Heredia's;  indeed  several  of  them 
run  over  into  a  fifteenth  line.  But  he  paints  as  a  lover  what 
Heredia  views  as  an  epicure.     Even  in  this  quasi-Parnassian  work 


NOTES  325 

such  a  line  as  "  un  adieu  rose  flotte  au  front  des  monuments  ' ' 
reveals  the  impressionist  to  whom  shadow  is  most  articulate. 

276.  This  apotheosis  of  a  poet's  ambition,  this  dream  of  fame, 
follows  in  the  original  the  correct  sonnet  form.  The  similes  in 
the  fourth  and  last  lines  of  the  second  stanza  are  not  in  the  original. 

ANATOLE  LE  BRAZ  (p.  292),  the  chief  interpreter  of  the  Breton 
soul  in  modern  France.  The  spirit  of  Celtic  myth  and  mysticism 
has  been  finely  wrought  by  his  hands  into  the  mould  of  a  language 
whose  character  and  traditions  are  alien  to  it,  and  the  achievement 
is  therefore  the  more  remarkable. 

STUART  MERRILL  (p.  295).     An  American  reared  in  France. 

FRANCIS  VIELE-GRIFFIN  (p.  300) .  Another  American  whom 
France  long  ago  absorbed.  He  has  been  much  influenced  by 
Swinburne. 

ROBERT  D'HUMIERES  (p.  303).  Died  fighting  for  France 
in  1915. 

294.  M.  Fort  prints  his  nearly  regular  stanzas  as  prose  para- 
graphs, and  I  have  therefore  followed  his  habit. 

CHARLES  GUERIN  (p.  309),  a  link  between  French  poetry 
and  the  Catholic  tradition. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Page 

Ackermann  196 

Amfrye  118 

Angellier  272 
Anonymous  ( 1 2th  Century)  35 
Anonjmious  (15th  Century)    42 

Arnault  130 

Arvers  172 

Baif  85 

Banville  223 

Barbier  171 

Bataille  305 

Baudelaire  214 

Belleau  80 

Benserade  no 

Beranger  133 

Bl^mont  238 

Bouilhet               •  221 

Boulay-Paty  169 

Boutelleau  266 

Brizeux  167 

Cazalis  240 

Chenier  (Andr6)  125 
Ch^nier  (Marie- Joseph)         129 

Coppee  255 

Corbiere  265 

Comeille  108 

D'Aubign^  95 

Desbordes-Valmore  135 

Deschamps  (Emile)  141 

Deschamps  (Eustache)  39 

Desportes  93 

Dierx  233 

D 'Orleans  43 

Doublet  87 

Du  Bartas  92 


Du  Bellay 

Ducis 

Fontainas 

Fort 

Fresnaye 

Fresny 

Froissart 

Gaud 

Gautier 

Gournay 

Gregh 

Guerin 

Guiot  de  Dijon 

Haraucourt 

Hdredia 

Herold 

Hugo 

Humieres 

Jodelle 

Labe 

La  Fontaine 

Lamartine 

Laprade 

Le  Braz 

Lebrun 

Lescurel 

Leconte  de  Lisle 

Maeterlinck 

Magny 

Malherbe 

Mallarm6 

Manuel 

Marot 


Page 

73 
123 
301 
304 

91 
119 

38 

287 
18S 

lOI 

30B 

309 

36 

286 
248 
302 
149 
303 

84 

78 
III 
Z36 

195 
292 
122 
37 
199 

394 

83 
xox 

339 
56 


327 


328 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Page 

Page 

Mauclair 

307 

Roches 

95 

Maynard 

104 

Rodenbach 

281 

Menard 

222 

Ronsard 

63 

Mendes 

255 

Rousseau 

120 

Merrill 

295 

Roy 

294 

Millien 

234 

Moliere 

"5 

Saint-Amant 

106 

Mor6as 

283 

Sainte-Beuve 

170 

Murger 

220 

Saint-Gelais 

55 

Musset 

175 

Saint-Pavin 

107 

Samain 

288 

Navarre 

56 

Scarron 

no 

Nerval 

173 

Silvestre 

231 

Soulary 

197 

Parny 

124 

Pasquier 

83 

Theuriet 

229 

Passerat 

88 

Tiercelin 

277 

Pisan 

41 

Tours 

87 

Plantin 

59 

Tyard 

63 

Prudhomme 

235 

Van  Lerberghe 

293 

Quinault 

116 

Verlaine 

258 

Viau 

105 

Racine 

117 

Vicaire 

268 

Read 

285 

Viele-Griffin 

300 

R^gnier  (Henri  de) 

297 

Vigny 

143 

Regnier  (Mathurin) 

lOI 

Villiers  de  1' Isle- Adam 

239 

Richepin 

273 

Villon 

48 

Rimbaud 

281 

Voiture 

108 

Rivoire 

306 

Voltaire 

120 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Page 

ACHILLES  chose  a  meaner  tcisk  when  he  95 

A  clear  night,  icy  wind,  and  blood-streams  staining  201 

A  cloud  the  far  horizon  scales  190 

A  frail  hand  hovering  sets  the  keys  astir  264 

A  hunter  old  whom  once  the  desert  air  209 

Ah  I  who  hath  not  joy  of  chill  Autumn's  slow  coming  ?  238 

All  finest  art  is  seen  188 

All  in  the  middle  of  her  mirth  this  merry  girl  is  dead  304 

All  men  this  path  must  tread  116 

All  through  the  day  down  poured  the  traitorous  flame  264 

Aloft  a  white-robed  angel  I  beheld  156 

Along  the  clouds  there  spreads  a  rosy  lustre  206 

Along  the  yines  the  blossoms  thrive  229 

Among  Levantine  legends  you  maye  find  112 

And  doth  my  aged  Muse  forlorn  120 

And  must  thy  grief,  Du  P^rier,  knowe  no  end  ?  lox 

April,  pryde  of  all  the  yeare  80 

A  rhjrthm  can  link  me  with  melodious  air  237 

As  daylight  passes  there  go  three  lasses  234 

As  Laura  to  the  Florentine  157 

As  one  astraye  within  the  forest  deepe  84 

A  spring  up-sparkles  in  the  silent  forest  203 

As  you  maye  see  the  sudden  lightnynge  smite  94 

As  you  maye  see  upon  the  stem  in  Maye  70 

At  her  wheel  the  old,  old  granny  294 

A  tremor  slides  from  the  hill-slopes  down  to  the  plains  233 
At  the  hour  when  the  stars  from  the  eastern  spaces  are 

peering  309 

BEHOLD  the  hour  is  come  when  stems  are  thrilled  2x5 

Beloved,  all  the  dust  has  turned  to  flower  302 

Be  wise,  my  sorrow,  quit  thy  vain  unrest  2x9 

Brave  luiight  that  to  the  war  doth  go  180 

Brave  strength  breeds  freedom,  for  each  load  we  bear  222 

Brook  little  known  whose  waters  run  123 

CALM  summer  eves  that  once  did  hide  266 

Cast  down  these  lilies  and  these  roses  flaring  285 

Caves,  and  streames  that  downward  slyde  70 

329 


380  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Page 

Chill  is  the  fount  whose  gentle  streame  doth  carrye  94 

Chisel  upon  thine  arch,  great  king,  a  knot  249 

Come,  young  Chromis,  I  love  thee,  and  I  am  lovely  125 

Coming  with  the  daffodils  and  dying  with  the  roses  138 

DARLING  little  winged  boys  are  clinging  to  our  skulls  105 

Deep  night  hangs  heavily  on  Nilos'  stream  291 

Do  souls  grow  ripe  and  wither  too  308 

ERE  thy  soft  ray  be  lost  262 

Eternal  rest  on  him  bestowe  54 

FAIR  Phyllis,  more  niggard  than  coy  119 

Fayre,  in  loyaltie  37 

Fear  fled  before  a  wily  Ass  that  clad  1 14 

Forest  and  plain  are  gone  239 

For  me  the  most  foul  demon  still  doth  plot  218 

For  myne  owne  courage  will  I  synge  36 

For  nine  long  months  she  made  her  mother's  vows  229 

For  that  my  son  hath  lost  his  mortal  shrine  100 

Free-thinker !  dost  thou  deem  that  only  man  174 

Frenchman,  halt  there  awhyle  nor  leave  this  lande  92 

Full  gladlye  in  this  month  of  Maye  58 

GARDEN  and  wold  by  Winter's  hand  are  gript  254 

Gastibelza,  gun  on  shoulder  153 
Gentleness  of  evening  I     In  the  room  with  no  lamp  shining       282 

Give  heed  unto  this  little  lad  160 

God  spake  and  said,  ' '  Son,  love  me.     Look  and  see  258 

Goddess  of  the  rosy  hue  106 

Great  God  at  whose  divine  word  of  command  117 

Great  Pascal  had  his  pit  always  in  sight  216 

Gray  clouds,  and  blue  clouds,  and  clouds  all  full  of  roses  277 

HAD  I  but  an  acre  of  loam  on  hill  or  valley  197 

Happie  is  he  that  from  a  faire  voydge  78 

Happye  the  man  beyonde  the  city's  hail  83 

Haul  up  the  anchor,  captain  old,  O  Death,  for  it  is  time  219 

Have  you  forgotten,  dear  Louise  220 
Here  fruit  and  flowers  I  bring  to  thee ;  green  leaves  and 

spiays  I  proffer  261 

Here  is  t  hewood  whereof  my  angel  sweete  69 

Here  lies  a  toper  drank  more  wine  104 

He  who  underground  doth  slumber  no 

He  who  with  a  random  eye  58 

His  galled  flesh  writhing  on  the  rock,  he  thrilled  232 

His  grace  the  Abbot  and  his  servynge  ladde  57 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  331 

Page 

How  canst  thou  reconcile,  O  heavenly  mayde  loi 

Howe  comelye  hath  Godde  made  her  be  45 

Howe  faire  a  destiny  'twould  be  104 

Howe  hard  a  thing  it  is  to  dree  42 

How  sad  a  glance,  how  shrunk  a  face  thou  hast  171 

I  AM  kind-hearted,  wish  no  creature  ill  235 

I  am  lovely  as  a  dream  of  stone.     Men  sicken  214 

I  am  the  dark  inheritor  of  woe  175 

I  am  the  Sea  made  Woman.     My  long  hair  292 

I  am  Young  Adventure's  Lover  and  I  vaunt  303 
I  bring  these  flowers,  these  pure  white  flow'rs,  to  you  in 

your  night  293 

Idle  Winter's  colde  85 

I  doe  bemoan  my  youthful  sinne  50 

If  but  your  creditors,  the  which  you  chyde  56 

If  in  this  house  ye  lie  a-bed  168 

If  Lyfe's  full  span  be  but  a  daye  that's  sped  73 

If  thou  wouldst  speak  unto  my  grief,  be  wary  298 

If  thy  heart,  groaning  under  life's  rude  burden  144 

If  you  think  that  I'll  discover  184 

I  gazed  on  darkness  where  the  pit  most  dread  162 

I  give  my  bodye  unto  her  that  gatte  51 

I  hate  the  Florentines'  pelf-huntynge  race  77 

I  have  drunk  of  rains  that  drench  287 

I  have  grieved  too  much  erewhile  for  fleeting  pain  308 
I  have  just  been  robbed  of  papers! — I  am  sorry  for  your  grief     122 

I  have  lost  my  turtle  fleet  89 

I  have  noe  eyes  save  when  on  her  I  looke  87 

I  knowe  full  well  I  am  noe  saynte  48 

I  know  when  noon  drives  shadowward  their  feet  127 

I  lived  a  life  was  fancy  free  104 

I  love  the  sound  of  the  horn  in  the  deep,  dim  woodland  147 

I  might  have  made  all  men  aware  299 

In  good  plain  French  your  words  devoutly  rise  108 

In  my  hands  I  have  taken  the  rain  that  fell  300 

In  tiny  townships  when  the  morning  drowses  281 

Into  the  church  with  pray'r  go  by  163 

I  often  wonder  with  what  blood  doth  beat  235 

I  rebehold  you,  0  beloved  dead  139 

I  saw  her  at  her  window  set  134 

I  saw  in  dream  a  fair  unknown  142 

I  send  to  thee  a  posie  gathered  64 

I  think  that  God  when  He  did  mould  285 

I  walked  behind  two  lovers,  their  kisses  hearing  298 

I  was  a  mite  when  she  was  tall  and  fair  125 
I  will  go  and  drink  the  waters  pure  that  feed  the  rolling 

river  195 


332  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Page 
I  will  set  out  to-morrow  when  the  dawn-light  whitens  all  the 

land  158 

I  would  it  had  been  mine  in  time  remote  214 

LAD  YE  of  heaven  that  o'er  earth  hath  swaye  52 
Lady,  they  will  tell  you,  "  You  are  foolish  to  believe  him!         141 

Let  it  be  draped  with  serge  or  with  brocade  254 

Like  the  once  lovely  monster,  in  the  tide  253 

Like  royal  galleys  be  my  verse  here  written  272 

Like  to  a  dismal  brute,  dust-smothered,  teased  207 

Lie  on  the  sand  and  thro'  thy  fingers  drain  300 

Long  shall  he  live  thro'  time  remembered  210 

Love  be  mute,  but  take  thyne  arc  91 

Love  comes  not  by  trying  120 

Lovely  she  was,  if  so  be  Night  180 

MARQUISE,  if  on  my  face  you  spy  108 

Memory,  what  wilt  thou  with  me  ?     Autumn  gales  263 

Meseemeth  that  soe  manye  shafts  be  notte  87 

'Mid  these  hamlets  and  these  woods  118 

More  deep  than  darts  from  Turkish  strings  283 

My  bodye  goes ;  I  leave  wyth  thee  my  heart  39 

My  brow  is  pale  upon  thy  knees  296 

My  dunnes  who  untoe  dizains  give  smalle  care  56 

My  heart  was  as  a  Roman  palace  fair  255 

My  heart  that  dreads  what  time  may  bring  290 

My  Manes  to  Clytie  are  crying,  "  Farewell,  fair  one!  126 

My  name  is  Light.     I  am  seventy  cubits  high  167 

Myne  only  love,  my  joye,  my  boone  45 

Myrrh  sweetens  all  their  supple  limbs ;  they  muse  249 

My  soul  doth  grope,  a  darkened  way  I  go  172 

My  soul's  a  belfry  full  of  bells  295 

NAY,  but  the  world  is  old,  nigh  old  as  hell  21 1 

No  live  girl's  body  hath  such  pride  impassioned  231 
Noon  whose  kingdom  summer  is,  spread  wide  along  the 

plain's  expanse  211 

Nor  bloody  altar,  nor  barbaric  rite  209 

Not  all  the  shippes  bye  Venice  quay  55 

Not  the  wild  wrath  of  flames  that  sk3nvard  shoot  74 

Not  seldom  in  my  dreams  a  woman's  eyes  260 

Not  sunrise  that  doth  sette  the  rose  a-fire  69 

Now  Ahod  on  the  plain  kept  countless  sheep  255 

Nowe  Cometh  the  soe  gracious  month  of  Maye  41 

Nowe  that  the  skiey  space,  the  solid  claye  63 

Now  falls  the  dusk  I  sit  in  peace  161 

Now  Grave  to  Rose  complaineth  158 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  333 

Page 

Now  that  my  tasks  are  done,  and  fast  165 

Now  Winter  turns  the  roadway  white  163 

Now  with  the  black  grape's  blood  the  barrels  flow  302 

O  BROTHER  men  that  live  when  we  have  end  53 

O  die  not  yet,  divine  Desire,  whose  flight  238 

O  France,  when  thou  art  prone  and  bound  159 

O !  happy  fleshly  lips  that  glow  236 

O  hearken  the  so  gentle  plaint  259 

O  limp-haired  Corsican !  thy  France  was  fair  171 

Old  herder's  daughter,  thou  whose  hands  are  skilled  127 

Old  Nilos  takes  the  round  moon's  silver  glance  252 

O  Mayde  more  tender  yet  67 

On  graven  chalice  or  on  hasp  of  gold  250 

On  high  Pentecost  I  found  39 

On  my  return  to  thee  (Ah  me !  my  woe)  65 
On  sunny  summer  evenings  I  shall  wander  down  a  bridle-path     28 1 

On  the  Moorish  coast,  chain-tethered  133 

O  pleasant  W3mde  whose  balmye  breath  doth  fill  91 

O  praye  for  peace,  sweet  mayde  Marie  43 

O  tell  me  where  and  in  what  lande  49 

Over  gray  skies  or  shining  267 

PALE  and  slow,  in  her  summer's  vesture  so  pale  305 

Pale  star  of  evening,  far  herald  wan  179 

Poet,  take  thy  lute  and  kiss  my  mouth  182 

Poor  Liza  died  two  days  ago  269 

QUIT  thy  bed  and  sleepe  of  twilight  88 

RED-HANDED  and  with  savage  thews  afire  248 

Rise  from  your  bed  for  the  Spring  is  bom  this  morning  221 

Rosette,  because  I  stayed  awaye  93 

SALUTE  for  me  the  fellowe-ship  74 
Scarce  on  my  yieldynge  pillowe  doe  I  bend  79 
Sea-road  a-tremble  where  the  dawnlight  swoons  30Z 
She  was  a  childe  or  hardly  more  Z24 
Silent  fields  where  I  was  glad  224 
Since  from  thy  brimming  chalice  I  have  sipped  152 
Since  sev'n  sins  from  these  our  eyes  Z02 
Since  she  is  f  rostye  as  the  Winter  aire  66 
Since  thyne  eye  so  ardently  ashine  with  love's  own  splen- 
dour XOI 
Sire,  Thulene  is  dead.  I  have  seen  his  grave  90 
Sire,  your  dogge  Lemon,  once  your  bed-fellowe  95 
Sleepe,  sire  of  rest  and  eke  of  dreams  the  sire  63 
Sleepe  that  most  heavenlye  of  all  boones  is  deemed  75 


334  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Page 

Sleepless  upon  my  bed,  my  spirit's  force  170 

Slowly  we  go  with  the  old  dog  close  behind  us         »  290 

So  blithe  am  I  when  I  a  rose  doe  smell  38 

Some  relics  on  a  donkey  being  tied  113 

Source  of  all  truth,  blasphemed  by  every  liar  129 
Spacious,  splendid  and  pacific,  the  vast  night  unrolled 

before  us  241 

Stay.     Light  not  the  lamp.     But  let  us  slake  257 

Still  do  they  sing,  the  swarm  of  mocking  fays  223 

Still  Etna  bears  the  red  wine  and  the  gold  253 

Stranger  that  seekest  Rome  in  Rome,  and  nought  74 

Strength  and  Life  have  fled  afar  183 

Summer's  the  time  for  soldierhood  40 

TELL  me,  lovely  girl  187 

That  night  the  loud  voice  of  the  sea  was  roaring  2e8 

The  Berecynthian  in  her  chariot  75 

The  butterflies  that  are  the  snow's  own  hue  19X 

The  fennels  said,  "  He  is  so  fond  283 

The  gorge  is  dark  below  the  reeds'  massed  slimness  199 

The  Grasshopper  that  through  the  Summer  heat  1 1 1 

The  Great  Bear  shone,  an  archipelago  237 

The  hamlets  die  in  the  long  eventimes  305 

The  hawthorn  blossom's  white  in  May  273 

The  infant  sang ;  the  mother,  life  near  over  156 

The  innumerable  multitude  grows  more  252 

The  load  we  bear  of  trouble  is  self-made  274 

The  loveliest  verses  are  those  that  we  never  can  write  286 

The  mirk  did  fa'  lang  syne,  lang  syne  35 

The  moon  grew  sad,  and  weeping  seraphim  247 

The  old  tramp  on  the  prowl  for  bread  276 

The  other  day  while  in  the  dale  our  friend  did  fare  on  122 

The  poet  snares  his  prize  227 

The  race  of  men  in  an  eternal  chain  196 

The  sea  grew  silent  like  a  seething  bowl  140 

The  sea-hooves  whiten  on  the  far  horizon  297 

The  seven  maids  of  Orlamonde  294 

There  is  an  air  for  which  I'd  give  all  else  173 
There  sometimes  come  strange  evenings  when  the 

flowers'  souls  awaken  288 

The  sickle  spares  the  springing  corn  127 

The  sky  above  the  roofing  lies  259 

The  sobs  are  long  262 

The  spent  winds  on  the  mountain  slopes  at  peace  204 

The  weary  leafage  wanes  307 
This  eve  I  left  the  flocks  to  stray  and  crop  the  grass 

with  no  one  by  167 

This  morning  I  had  roses  for  thee  found  135 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  335 

Page 

This  morning  not  one  beam  cleaves  the  cloud-blind  233 

This  window  ha^h  seen  many  a  dame  and  lord  250 
Thou  mayst  be  manly  an  thou  wilt.     Go  1  clench  thy  hilt  and 

brave  the  squall  257 

Thus  ever  drawn  toward  far  shores  uncharted  136 

Thus  shall  we  live  our  separate  lives  unknit  273 

Thy  sighte  denied  when  deare  to  me  83 

Tircis  makes  rhjrmes  as  fast  as  ticking  107 

'Tis  noon.     Mid  burning  air  and  dreadful  rays  251 

To  muse.     In  the  void  of  night  to  thrill  like  the  rushes  292 

To  her  the  dearest,  the  most  fair  217 

Toward  your  scented  garden,  Sweet  152 

To  you  light  troupe  that  ryde  77 

Tyme  hath  throwne  downe  the  robe  he  bare  47 

'Twas  a  dusky  night  I  spied  175 

Two  wrestlers  in  a  ruthless  grapple  strive  169 

UNDER  her  tilted  hat  of  Tuscan  rushes  198 

Under  vast  colonnades  that  took  the  noon's  215 

Up  leapt  the  wave  as  a  wild  unbroken  stallion  240 

WAIF  in  the  wind,  O  where  130 

We  are  the  gilders  of  the  prows  149 
Weary  is  the  flesh,  alas!  with  many  books  the  eyes  are  dim     247 

Weep  on  Le  Vayer,  make  thine  eyes  an  urn  115 
We'll  go  no  more  the  woodland  way,  the  laurel-leaves  are 

dipt  228 

What  doth  our  loves  befall  ?  173 

What  evil  woes  dull  Hate  maye  breede  57 

What  joy  when  flute  and  violin  304 

What  shall  I  doe  if  love  me  leave  ?  42 

When  barren  boughs  above  us  wave  143 

When  I  could  taste  (as  nowe  no  more  maye  be)  76 

When  I  remember  I  am  nigh  to  weep  126 

When  men  do  find  upon  a  day  185 

When  Michael  Angelo  left  the  Sistine  dome  185 

When,  0  my  dark  belovdd,  thou  shalt  drowse  218 
When  the  long  day  dies  in  summer  and  flowers  are  closing       157 

When  thou  art  old  and  bye  the  fire  alone  66 

When  with  shut  eyes  in  autumn  twilight  dim  217 

When  you  beholde  her  graciousness  and  glory  108 

Where  goes  the  starry  quire  ?  232 

While  that  myne  eyes  with  woeful  teares  doe  flood  78 

Whoe'er  you  are,  you  here  your  master  see  122 

Who  hath  a  well-built  house  both  clean  and  comelye  59 

Why,  0  Dante,  deemedst  thou  life's  worst  trial  182 

Withhold  thy  love,  though  life  betrays  243 


336  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Page 

Within  the  forest  of  sad  wearinesse  46 

Worthy  masters,  worthy  wives  275 

YESTREEN  beneath  the  greenery  197 

Yonder  o'er  the  sea  like  a  swallow  hasting  over  205 

You  ask  me  whom  in  dream  I  see  ?  268 

You  gave  the  youngster  into  my  care. — He's  dead  265 

You  have  good  cause  to  weep  your  fate  113 

Your  songs  Paris  honoured  of  late  122 

You  spiky  gorse,  you  hoUye  thorn-beset  65 


PRINTED  AT 
THE   COMPLETE   PRESS 
WEST    NORWOOD,    LONDON 


A    000  142  888    7 


